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NEW  YORK. 


COMEDY,  IN  THREE  ACTS. 

BY 

ED:  G.  P.  WILKINS, 

AUTHOR  OF  “MY  WIFE’S  MIRROR.” 


AT  LAURA  KEENE’S  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK,  .MON- 
DAY EVENING,  NOV.  24,  1858. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  Tear  One  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-Six,  by  E.  Q.  F.  W.'lblca, 
In  the  Cle'i’s  Office  of  the  District  court  of  the  Oa,t«l  States  tor  the  Southern  District  of  New  Yerfc. 


NEW  YORK: 

SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

122  Nassau  Street;  (Up  Stairs.) 


©ast  of  tfje  Characters. — (Young  New  York.) 

Mr.  Ten-per-cent,  pater  familias,  a retired  Merchant,  addicted  to 
note-shaving,  kite-flying,  anxious  to  represent  this  ungrateful 
republic  in  Congress,  afflicted  with  a fast  and  fashionable 

wife Mr.  Burnet 

Mr.  Adolphus  Washington  Ten-per-cent , son  of  his  father,  the  fore- 
going, addicted  to  billiards,  brandy  and  water,  and  the  corps 

de  ballet.  Mr,  George  Jordan 

Mr.  Airy  Froth , A.  B.,  addicted  to  romancing,  vulgarly  called 
blowing  ; distinguished  for  having  no  affairs  of  his  own,  and 
paying  the  most  profound  attention  to  those  of  other  people  ; 
ex-politician,  ex-diplomatist,  ex-musical  agent,  ex-journalist, 

ex-artist Mr.  T.  B.  Johnston 

Mr.  Needham  Crawl , addicted  to  Bible  Societies,  Religious  Anni- 
versaries, Christian  Associations,  Oxford  prayer  books  and 
two  per  cent,  per  month  ; with  one  eye  in  Wall  street,  and 

the  other  on  Grace  Church Mr.  Stoddart 

Mr.  Nutgalls , Editor  of  the  “ Daily  Scorcher,”  addicted  to  saying 

unpleasant  things  in  the  wrong  place Mr.  C.  Wheatleigh 

Signor  Patrici  Skibbcrini,  a noble  Roman,  originally  from  Galway, 
first  Tenor  at  the  Italian  Opera  ; addicted  to  $1,500  per 

month Mr.  Lingham 

Mrs.  Ten-per-cent,  addicted  to  fashionable  society,  and  four  parties 

a week Mrs.  H.  P.  Grattan 

Miss  Rose  Ten-per-cent,  daughter  of  the  foregoing,  a flower,  just 
cut  from  the  bush,  at  Springier  Institute ; addicted  to  driving 
three-minute  horses,  sherry-cobblers,  the  German  and  Skib- 

berini Miss  Laura  Keene 

Miss  Cerulia  Sawin,  from  Boston,  Massachusetts,  highly  intel- 
lectual ; addicted  to  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Professor 
Agassiz,  astronomical  observations,  conic  sections  and  pri- 
mary formations, Miss  Josephine  Manners 

Jane,  a Domestic, Miss^ 


PROGRAMME  OF  SCENERY  AND  INCIDENTS. 

Act  I. — The  United  States  Hotel  Saratoga  Springs. — The  fir 
the  Season — “ I’m  Dying  for  a Cobbler:”  Exciting  Brush  or 
Road  ; The  German  ; A little  bit  of  Lecturing  and  Love  flaking  ; Sud- 
den appearance  of  Young  New  York — I’ll  Sumnerize  yo|u  ! Adjourn- 
ment to  the  Clifton  House. — Tableau  ! 

Act  II. — Mr.  Ten  Per  Cent's  Basement — slightly  subterranean,  but 
verv  nice;  A Grand  Family  Row  ; Remarkable  Evidence  of  Spunk  on 
the  part  of  Young  New  York  ; A Thrilling  Scene  with  a Denouement 
that  any  body  might  have  expected. 

Act  III.,  Scene  1 .—Editorial  Rooms  of  the  Scorcher,  not  intended  for 
any  New  York  Papers  ; Description  of  a Great  Western  Actress. 

Scene  2. — The  Tenant  House  f Young  New  York  under  a Cloud,  but 
Gay  as  a Lark  ; A Bran  New  Novel,  copyright  secured  ; Mr.  Ten  Per 
Cent  reads  the  Afternoon  Papers.  Scene  4. — The  G\een  Room  of  the 
Acculemy  of  Music  ; Debut  of  the  New  Singer ; Finale  to  Cinderella, 
“ Now  with  Grief  no  longer  Bending.” — Conclusion. 

Time  of  Representation  Two  Hours. 


i 


STOP  A MOMENT! 

On  the  first  night  of  this  piece,  the  author  had  the  honor  to  appear 
before  the  curtain,  in  response  to  the  call  of  the  audience.  He  also 
had  the  pleasure  to  address  the  audience,  and  is  sorry  to  learn  from 
various  quarters,  that  his  eloquent  remarks  were  altogether  inaudible  in 
the  front  of  the  house.  It  has  been  further  stated,  that  the  speech  was 
a little  confidential  chat  with  Mr.  Thomas  Baker,  the  conductor  of  the 
orchestra.  Mr.  Baker,  however,  has  assured  the  author,  that  he  is 
altogether  in  the  dark  as  to  the  remarks  made  on  the  interesting 

occasion.  ' _ 

Rather  than  allow  so  noble  a specimen  of  forensic  eloquence  to  be 

lost  to  posterity,  the  author  has  decided  to  embody  it  here. 

The  author,  then,  desires  to  thank  the  public,  the  actors,  and  the 
press,  for  the  extreme  kindness  with  which  his  first  efforts  at  dramatic 
composition  have  been  patronised,  performed  and  reviewed  ; and,  using 
an  entirely  original  expression,  to  say  that  his  gratitude  is  altogether 
too  profound  to  be  expressed  in  words. 

To  Miss  Laura  Keene,  the  thanks  of  the  author  are  especially  due, 

for.  her  care  and  attention  displayed  in  getting  up  the  piece  ; and  for 
her  delicate  deference  to  the  author’s  requests,  reasonable  or  unreason- 
able. Nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  acting  of  Miss  Keene  and  Mr 
George  Jordan,  in  the  characters  which  embody  the  speciality^of  tlu 
comedy,  and  much  of  its  success  is  due  to  their  artistic  performance 
To  Mr.  Charles  Wheatleigh,  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Johnston,  Mr.  Bur- 
nett, Mr.  Stoddart,  Mr.  Lingham,  Mrs.  Grattan  and  Miss  Josephine 
Manners  the  acknowledgments  of  the  author  are  justly  due. 

To  the  great  public,  which  generously  gave  its  approbation  to  the 
young  author’s  imperfect  effort,  he  returns  his  thanks,  and  will  endeavor 
to  deserve  the  favor  so  lavishly  bestowed.  It  was  not  expected  that 
this  comedy  which  deals  more  with  facts  than  fancies  would  please 
every  body,  and  that  ‘ it  has  satisfied  the  majority  is  sufficient  for  all 
practical  purposes.  Not  to  be  at  all  impertinent,  the  minority  should 
remember  the  remarks  of  Hamlet — 

“ Let  the  galled  jade  wince, 

Our  withers  are  unwrung.” 

And  so,  sweet  friends,  farewell,  until  we  meet  again. 

The  Autho- 


A* 


rw 


(Costumes. — (Young  New  York.) 

MR.  TEN-PER-CENT — First  Act — Light  Summer  Dress — Second  and 
Third  Acts,  Black  Suit,  rather  seedy. 

MR.  CRAWL — Black  Suit,  White  Cravat,  no  beard  or  moustache. 

MR.  FROTH — First  Act — Fashionable  Summer  Promenade — Third 
Act,  Black  suit. 

MR.  NUTGALLS — Fashionable  Promenade. 

MR.  WASHINGTON  TEN-PER-CENT— First  Act— White  Panta- 
loons, light  loose  Coat,  white  Waistcoat,  very  broad  Watch  Ribbon, 
low  cut  patent  leather  Shoes,  no  whiskers  and  a slight  moustache. — 
Second  Act — Fashionable  Promenade,  very  long  loose  Coat,  light 
Trousers,  outre  hat.  Boots. — Third  Act — Seedy  thin  Coat,  spotted 
with  ink,  no  Waistcoat,  Slippers,  seedy  Trousers — Fourth  Act — 
Evening  Dress. 

MR.  SKIBBERINI — First  Act — Full  Ball  Dress — Second  Act — Black 
suit,  white  Gloves. 

ROSE  TEN-PER-CENT — First  Act — Ball  Dress — Second  Act — 
Travelling  Dress — Third  Act — Plain  Black  Silk  Dress — Fourth  Act 
— Evening  Dress.  • 

CERULIA — First  Act — Ball  Dress — Second  Act — Fashionable  Morn- 
ing Dress,  (should  wear  constantly  an  eye-glass,  black  mounted) — 
Fourth  Act — Evening  Dress. 

MRS.  TEN-PER-CENT — First  Act — Ball  Dress — Second  Act — Pro- 
menade. 


properties. 


ACT  I. 


Scene  L — Furniture  for  room  seen  through  the  Flat,  Cigars  in  cases 
md  matches  for  Ten-per-cent  and  Nutgalls.  Arm  chairs  in  front  of 
Ordinary  hotel  chairs,  Ice  cream  for  Rose.  Light  cane  for 


ACT  II. 


Scene  T. — Lunch  Table,  l.  c , with  decanters,  Lounge,  n.,  Library 
Chairs,  Bookcases,  Mirror,  handsome  Furniture,  Book  in  Library  for 
Cerulia  to  find,  Newspaper  for  Cerulia,  Letter  and  Newspaper  for  Ten- 
^ per-cent.  (No.  1 2,  Act  II.)  Written  Card,  (large)  for  Mrs.  Ten-per- 

1 cent,  a Tract  and  a Flacon  for  Crawl— Door  Bell  and  noise  of  Trunks, 
e.  e.,  Blank  Note  for  Jane,  (No.  3,  Act  II.) 

Y act  III. 

[ Scene  I. — "Writing  Desk,  with  writing  materials,  paper  and  manu- 
L scripts,  r„  Two  Office  Chairs,  Basket  for  waste  paper,  written  paper, 
f (No.  1,  Act  III.)  Concert  Bill  on  desk,  (IB*  to  be  cleared.) 

Scene  II. — Fireplace,  Furniture  of  Tenant  House,  cheap  Furniture, 
Table  s.  c.,  and  a boquet  on  it,  as  well  as  one  of  Singer’s  Sewing  Ma- 
chines, c.,  another  Table,  l.,  with  writing  materials,  Cooking  Utensils 
at  fireplace,  a Canary  Bird  in  cage,  written  paper.  (No.  2.,  Act  III.,)  2 
i sheets  newspaper,  Herald  on  table,  (No.  3.,  Act  III,)  Newspaper,  Act 
I III.,  for  Ten-per-cent,  (blank,)  Evening  Mirror,  No.  6,  for  Jane,  (writ- 

r — 


363661 


Q 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Represents  the  piazza  of  the  United  States  Hotel,  at  Saratoga 

Springs.  Practical  windows  open  from  the  ball-room  on  the  piazza. 

The  front  of  the  scene  represents  a park.  The  footlights  should  be  down. 

A quadrille  is  danced  in  the  ball-room.  Chairs  in  front.  Strong  lights 

behind  the  scene,  in  f. 

Mr.  Ten-per-cent.  [ Discovered  sitting  on  the  piazza,  r.  c.,  smoking.] 
Three  weeks  at  Saratoga,  and  except  one  jolly  dinner  at  the  Lake 
House,  with  some  Wall  Street  fellows,  not  one  solitary  drop  of  comfort 
have  I had  yet.  What  good  is  all  my  money  to  me,  I’d  like  to  know. 
I’ve  got  a great  house  in  Madison  Avenue  ; got  the  furniture  of  the 
parlors  out  from  Paris — cost  a cool  ten  thousand.  Might  have  got  it 
just  as  good  here  for  five,  I’ve  no  doubt ; but  American  manufactures 
are  not  good  enough  for  fashionable  people.  Fashionable  people — bah  ! 

Enter  Crawl,  l.  3 e. 

Crawl.  Ah,  my  dear  sir  ! Soliloquizing  1 

Ten-per-cent.  Hollo  ! Crawl ! is  that  you,  old  fellow  1 I’m  glad  to  see 
you.  Yes,  I was  thinking  aloud. 

Crawl.  I trust,  my  dear  sir,  that  no  unpleasant  thoughts  intruded. 
“ All  is  vanity,”  saith  the  preacher,  but  Saratoga  is  said  to  be  very  gay, 
this  year. 

Ten-per-cent,  [contemptuously .]  Gay  ! — humph.  What  is  all  their 
gayety  to  me  1 

Crawl,  [solemnly.]  What,  indeed,  children  of  sin  bom  in  iniquity  1 

Ten-per-cent.  I don’t  know  that.  There’s  a good  many  Southern 
people  here,  but  most  of  them  look  as  if  they  were  born  in  New  .York. 
But  what  I was  saying  was,  that  their  gayety  is  nothing  to  me.  They 
don’t  know  me  except  when  they  want  a subscription  to  one  of  their 
infernal  hops  ! Then  I have  to  come  down — heavy  enough  it  is,  too. 
What  with  new  dresses  for  the  women,  three  dollar  boquets,  and  all 
sorts  of  trash — not  that  I care  about  the  money— only  they- don’t  seem 
to  get  anything  for  it. 

Crawl.  Mistaken  souls  that  dream  of  heaven.  If  they  would  only 
spend  their  money  for  the  spread  of  religious  tracts  and  pious  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  among  the  Camanches. 


6 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Ten-per-cent.  Well,  I don’t  know  about  that.  My  wife  bought  two 
pocket-handkerchiefs  the  other  day — loves  of  mo-shors,  she  called  ’em — 
and  gave  two  hundred  and  fifty  a-piece  for  ’em.  A Camanche  Indian 
might  use  ’em  for  rifle  wadding,  but  I’m  certain  he’d  never  think  of 
wiping  his  nose  on  ’em.  [ Taking  out  cigar.']  Have  a weed,  Crawl  1 

Crawl.  Smoking,  sir,  is  a vanity,  and  I eschew  tobacco,  but  my  phy- 
sician recommends  it  to  quiet  my  nervous  system.  Yes,  I’ll  take  one, 
thank  you.  [Lights  cigar.]  Your  lot  is  a happy  one,  sir — boundless 
wealth — a lovely  daughter. 

Ten-per-cent,  (r.)  Humbug ! I am  a slave,  sir.  Can’t  enjoy  my  own 
property.  Got  a splendid  house — cost  (furniture  and  all)  a cool  hundred 
thousand.  Parlors  are  always  shut  up,  unless  my  wife  gives  a splurge, 
and  then  I can’t  get  in.  I’m  kept  under  ground,  in  the  basement,  and, 
the  windows  being  grated,  it  looks  shockingly  like  the  Tombs.  Then  I 
have  a closet  to  sleep  in,  in  the  third  story.  I’m  too  vulgar  to  meet  my 
wife’s  friends,  but  they  drink  my  wine,  nevertheless.  Fashion  keeps 
us  out  of  our  comfortable  homes  three  months  in  the  year,  and  sends  us 
here  to  Saratoga,  where  we  pay  two  hundred  dollars  a-week  for  a dog- 
kennel,  which  they  call  a parlor,  and  three  dry-goods  boxes,  impudently 
termed  bed-rooms  ; get  nothing  to  eat — drive  over  dusty  roads — and 
drink  water,  flavored  with  old  iron,  boot-heels  and  brimstone — bah  ! 

Crawl . (l.)  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  what  you  say  is,  indeed,  too  true  ; the 
frivolity  of  fashionable  life  is,  indeed,  terrible  ; Doctor  Burn-’em-all 
preached  such  a sweet  discourse  to  our  association  last  summer  upon 
that  subject. 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes,  he’s  a powerful  preacher — [Aside.]  has  a power- 
ful salary  too,  and  makes  a tour  to  Europe  to  help  his  bronchitis — it’s 
just  as  bad  next  summer,  and  down  we  come  with  more  money.  The 
Doctor’s  Italian  campaigns  are  as  expensive  as  Napoleon’s.  By  the 
bye,  Crawl,  how  do  you  come  on  with  Rose  1 

Crawl.  Not  well,  sir  ; she’s  a strange  girl — no  seriousness  about  her 
at  all  ; talks  all  the  time  about  the  opera  and  horses.  Sometimes  she 
astonishes  me  by  asking  about  La  Grange’s  shake. 

Ten-per-cent.  Her  what? 

Crawl.  Shake  1 don’t  know  what  it  is — never  heard  of  it  in  Wall 
Street — don’t  think  it  occurs  in  church  music. 

Nutgalls  enters  c.from  door. 

Nut.  [Aside.]  Max  has  to  pay  twenty-eight  hundred  a month  for  it, 
though. 

Crawl.  And  then  she  wants  me  to  look  at  a new  horse,  and  asks  ms 
what  is  the  best  trotting  time,  under  the  saddle. 

Nut.  [Back.]  She’ll  run  you  the  fastest  race  you  ever  heard  of,  if  you 
get  her. 

Crawl.  If  I attempt  to  divert  her  attention  from  worldly  frivolities* 
she  laughs  and  says  that  no  one  in  society  goes  to  church,  except  to 
hear  the  singing. 

Nut.  The  old  fogies  go  to  sleep. 

.Ten-per-cent.  I really  can’t  imagine  what  ails  the  women.  Rose 


YOUNG  NEW  YOUK. 


used  to  be  tho  quietest  of  girls — quite  like  that  queer  little  cousin  of 
hers  from  Boston — but  stick  to  Rose,  she’s  good  stock,  fully  up  to  par. 

Crawl.  I’m  afraid  that  profane  singer,  from  the  opera,  has  a design 
upon  her  virgin  heart. 

Nut.  [Aside.]  As  you  have  upon  her  virgin  bank  account. 

Tcn-per-ccnt.  Confound  those  fellows  ! why  can’t  they  eat  their  mac- 
caroni  at  home  1 Why,  my  wife  patronizes  Shibiberninny,  or  whatever 
his  name  is,  I can’t  see.  People  ought  to  stick  to  their  position,  I say. 

Nut.  [ Advancing .]  Some  of  us  would  be  transferred  from  the  Fifth 
to  the  First  Avenue,  if  that  rule  were  carried  out.  Your  servant,  gen- 
tlemen. 

• Ten  per-cent.  Ah  ! Scorcher,  how  are  you?  What’s  going  on  inside 
— got  an  item  for  us,  or  for  to-morrow’s  paper  1 

Nut.  [ Imitating  Crawl.]  The  Scorcher  is  engaged  in  the  great  work 
of  regenerating  humanity,  settling  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  regu- 
lating the  destinies  of  Europe,  at  two  cents  per  copy,  and  one  shilling  a 
line  for  advertisements  ! And  we  can't  afford  space  to  puff  broken  down 
watering  places  and  used  up  belles. 

Crawl.  I never  read  the  secular  press.  My  researches  are  confined 
to  the  publications  of  the  Tract  Society. 

Nut.  Capital  good  things  they  are  too. 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes.  to  go  to  sleep  over.  But  how  goes  the  hop  ! 

Rose.  [ Speaking  c.  inside .1  Oh!  no,  thank  you  ; 1 don't  care  to  dance 
any  more  till  the  German — won’t  somebody  get  me  a cobbler  ? 

Nut.  There  comes  some  one  that  can  tell  you  better  than  I. 

[ Ladies  laugh  within. 

Ten-per-cent.  Jerusalem  ! a whole  raft  of  women.  I’ll  leave.  Crawl, 
will  you  moisten  ! 

Crawl.  I am  a tee-totaller  in  principle,  but  my  physician  recommends 
a small  quantity  of  stimulant  for  my  nervous  agitation 

Ten-per-cent.  Humph!  that  means  you’ll  go,  I suppose  1 Nutgalls, 
will  you  join  us  1 

Nut.  My  physician  is  not  so  kind  as  Crawl's.  In  fact  he  warned  me 
against  bad  liquor,  so  I decline. 

Ten-per-cent.  Come,  Crawl,  [ Going  l.]  I want  to  talk  to  you  about 
that  Galena  and  Chicago. 

Crawl.  Hold  on  to  it.  [Exeunt  Ten-per-cent  and  Crawl,  l.  3 e. 

Nut.  (l.  c.)  Nice  fellow,  that  Crawl — makes  a good  thing  out  of  re- 
ligion and  fancy  stocks  together. 

Enter  Rose,  c.,  eating  an  ice,  with  Mrs.  Ten-per-cent,  Miss  Cerulia 
Sawin  and  Skibberini. 

Rose,  (c.)  Oh  ! Mr.  Nutgalls,  I’m  so  glad  to  see  you.  You  know 
everything,  and  can  tell  me  all  about  the  races.  Will  any  ladies  go? 
They  say  some  of  the  people  in  society  have  got  a club,  and  oh  my  ! — 
you  ought  to  have  seen  me  out  this  morning  with  those  new  ponies  pa 
gave  me — such  dears — I had  such  a brush  on  the  Lake  Road. 

Mrs.  Ten.  (l.  c.)  My  dear,  such  conversation 

Rose.  Stop,  ma — don’t  break  me  up.  I’m  in  the  best  part. 

Nut.  (r.)  It’s  charming — pray  go  on, 


8 


YOIJNG  NEW  YORK. 


Ross.  Well,  Rule  and  I thought  we  would  have  a little  ride  this  morn- 
ing with  the  ponies — didn’t  we,  Rule  ? 

Cerulia.  (l.)  You  did  all  the  thinking.  I had  heard  there  were  some 
curious  stratifications  near  the  lake. 

Rose.  That’ll  do  about  the  strat — whatever  you  call  them.  Rule 
and  I thought  we’d  have  a ride,  so  we  took  Skib  along  to  drive  us, 
didn’t  we,  Skib  1 

Skib.  Si,  signorina  ! (Aside)  and  mighty  glad  I was  to  get  back  wid 
whole  bones  in  me  skin. 

Rose.  We  had  the  new  light  wagon,  and  were  going  along  at  what 
Wash,  calls  a Jersey  gait,  when  down  comes  Bob  Fastboy  with  those 
splendid  blacks  of  his.  My  ponies  pricked  up  their  ears,  and  gave  a 
jump  that  nearly  pulled  Skib’s  arms  out,  and  made  Rule  drop  her  Emerson 
in  the  mud.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  ponies  throw  out  their  dear 
little  feet  I felt  all  the  blood  .coming  up  to  my  head — the  ponies  went 
faster  and  faster,  Skib  got  nervous — 1 was  as  cool  as  Rockland  Lake  at 
Christmas — I took  the  reins,  oh!*  how  they  pulled,  [Imitating  driving, ] 
soon  came  up  to  Fastboy.  He  wanted  to  pull  up — too  much  of  a gen- 
tleman, you  know,  to  race  with  a lady — but  his  horses  didn’t  share  his 
feelings  in  that  respect,  and  nearly  pulled  him  over  the  dasher,  instead 
of  he  checking  them,  so  he  let  them  go,  and  away  we  went,  like  twin 
bullets,  neck  and  neck.  I kept  my  arms  down,  and  had  the  ponies  well 
together,  so — everything  turned  aside  for  us — we  had  a clear  road  for  a 
mile.  I couldn’t  hear  anything  but  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  or  the  tip 
tips  of  the  ponies’  hoofs — my  heart  beat  like  a steam  engine,  it  was  clear 
up  in  my  mouth,  and— and — I beat  him,  I beat  him — I led  him  a hun- 
dred yards  at  the  Lake  House.  What  do  you  think  of  that — eh  1 

Mrs.  Ten.  I think  it's  disgusting — what  would  the  Dusenburys  say  ? 

Nut.  I think  it’s  charming.  [ Aside .]  She’d  have  saved  the  fortunes 
of  the  Hippodrome. 

Skib.  You  drive  splendidly.  [Aside. ] ’Pon  my  soul,  I expected  we’d 
overturn  every  minute. 

Cerulia.  I think  from  your  exterior  stratifications,  that  there  must  be 
a little  of  the  horse-jockey  in  your  primary  formations.  [ Music  within. 

Rose.  Dear  me,  that’s  for  the  .German,  come  Ma,  Rule,  Skib,  [To 
Nutgalls.]  come  Scorpion,  won’t  you  go? 

f Rushes  out  c.,  followed  by  Skib.,  Cerulia,  and  Mrs.  Ten-per-cent. 

Nutgalls.  No,  thank  you.  There’s  no  comfort  in  dancing  with  a lady 
now  a days.  The  hoops  are  so  extensive  that  one  can’t  get  within 
fifteen  feet  of  his  partner.  I think  I shall  have  to  republish  No.  167  of 
the  Spectator  as  a lesson  to  the  perverse  females  of  this  generation. 
They  enlarge  the  rear  of  freedom  with  a vengeance. 

Enter  Froth  [l.  3 e.],  runs  to  Nutgalls  and  slaps  him  on  the  back. 

Froth,  (l.)  How  are  you,  old  fellow?  How’s  every  inch  of  your 
crusty  old  carcase ! Just  arrived,  railroad  accident  of  course — always 
is — smashed  up  a lot  of  immigrants — being  second  class  passengers,  no 
fuss  will  be  made  about  them.  Detained  a lot  of  fifth  Avenue  people, 
though — they’ll  make  a fuss.  What’s  the  news?  What’s  up?  who's 
here!  How’s  my  old  fogy  friend,  Ten-per-cent,  and  that  joker  Crawl, 
who  does  the  religious  dodge,  and  make  no  end  of  tin  by  it  1 


YOUNG  NEW  YORE. 


D 


Nutgalls.  (r.)  Oh,  they  are  spending  their  time  in  the  usual  miser- 
able manner,  affected  by  our  people  when  they  enjoy  rural  felicity,  which 
means  being  charged  and  starved  to  death.  What  on  earth  are  you 
here  for.  You  ought  to  know  better. 

Froth.  So  I do.  I’m  here  for  business.  Old  Ten  per-cent  wants  to 
run  for  Congress,  and  I’m  his  agent — don’t  you  see  1 All  these  things 
are  done  by  funds,  and  I’ve  come  for  a small  cheque  on  the  Bank  o ( 
Commerce  for  incidentals. 

Nut.  What  are  they  1 

Froth . That’s  a secret.  I can’t  put  you  up  to  all  the  dodges.  First 
thing  I knew,  you’d  let  ’em  all  out  in  the  Scorcher , but  the  legitimate 
expenses  of  a Congressional  campaign  are  twenty-five  hundred  or  three 
thousand  dollars,  and  when  we  employ  strikers,  and  buy  up  small 
newspapers,  those  are  the  illegitimate  expenses  ; it  often  costs  five  or  six 
thousand.  I’ve  rung  in  some  small  fry -journals  to  back  up  the  old  joker, 
but  it’s  of  no  use  talking  to  you,  I suppose. 

Nut.  No,  I couldn’t  support  him  at  any  price.  He  might  do  for  the 
Board  of  Aldermen.  They  do  nothing  but  sit  in  a cushioned  chair  at 
City  Hall,  and  say,  yea  or  nay,  as  the  party  demands,  and  use  up  a great 
deal  of  stationery  ! much  t®  the  distress  of  the  Comptroller,  who  refuses 
to  pay  for  a package  of  envelopes,  and  winks  at  a fifty  thousand  dollar 
contract.  New  York  has  been  taxed  to  death,  and  nothing  but  its  great 
wealth,  its  astonishing  prosperity,  and  the  abased  generosity  of  its 
people,  prevents  them  from  taking  the  law  into  their  own  hands,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  San  Francisco  Vigilance  Committee. 

Froth.  That  would  be  unpleasant. 

Nut.  Undoubtedly.  But  the  body  politic  is  like  the  body  human — 
it  needs  strong  medicines  at  times.  But  I believe  that  recent  events 
show  that  the  people  are  waking  up  to  a sense  of  their  stupidity,  and 
are  preparing  to  administer  the  government  themselves,  instead  of 
placing  it  in  the  hands  of  two  or  three  hundred  drunken  rowdies,  who 
bully  voters  at  primary  elections,  and  pack  nominating  conventions. 
The  independent  press  has  led  the  van  in  this  new  movement,  and  the 
people  are  alive  to  the  necessity  of  putting  the  right  men  in  the  right 
places.  So,  decidedly,  we  cannot  support  your  man  for  Congress.  As 
a politician  he  is  one  of  the  biggest  fools  in  the  district. 

Froth.  That’s  precisely  the  reason  we  are  going  to  elect  him.  I have 
got  everything  set  with  the  nominating  convention,  and  he  is  bound  to 
go  in.  Now,  if  you ’ve  got  any  nice  little  thing,  you’d  like  to  get  put 
through  next  session,  just  support  him  and  it’s  settled. 

Nut.  No,  sir.  Couldn’t  be  done.  Money’s  no  object,  unless  we  get 
it  in  the^  legitimate  way.  W'e ’ve  got  a large  number  of  other,  and 
tetter  fishes  to  fry.  Will  you  smoke  1 [Offering  cigar. 

Froth.  [ Taking  cigar.  Nutgalls  goes  up.}  Don’t  mind  if  I do, 
Calznas?  Yes,  very  nice.  I say,  Mr.  Ten-per-cent,  is  that  you  1 

Ten-per-cent.  [Coming  forward  from  l.  3 e.  of  piazza .]  Yes,  that’s 
rite.  How’d  ye  do,  Froth  1 What’s  the  news  in  the  city  1 

[They  take  chairs — Nutgalls  r. 

Froth.  Oh,  great.  Politics  running  higher  than  ever.  1 he  Buchanan 
jren  confident.  The  Fillmore  party  gave  a grand  splurge  and  saved  the 


10 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


country,  a night  or  two  ago,  and  the  Fremont  fellows  are  fighting  like 
so  many  grizzlys  for  victory. 

Ten-per-cent,  (l.)  How  do  things  look  in  my  district1? 

Froth.  A little  queer,  but  I think  I’ve  got  most  of  the  delegates,  so 
your  nomination  is  pretty  near  fixed.  I have  gasconaded  a good  deal 
about  “ eminent  merchant,’' — “credit  to  his  country” — “commercial 
interest  surest  of  the  prosperity  of  the  republic  ” — and  spent  plenty  of 
money  for  liquor. 

Ten-per-cent.  A powerful  agent. 

Froth.  Yes,  it  gets  at  men  who  are  altogether  unimpressible  by  other 
means  ; it’s  very  expensive  though — nothing  but  shilling  drinks  in  your 
district.  But  we  must  have  money. 

Ten-per-cent.  Money — always  money.  I’m  a perfect  watering-cart, 
saturating  everybody  with  artificial  cheques  ; I gave  you  a thousand  a 
week  ago. 

Froth.  Yes,  I banked  all  that,  [ Aside .]  chiefly  at  pharo.  We  want 
money  for  two  or  three  delegates,  who  can’t  see  your  infinite  merit  just 
at  present,  and  there’s  a good  deal  to  pay  to  men  to  stand  round  the 
polls. 

Ten-per-cent.  What  for  1 Are  all  those  loafers  paid  1 

Froth.  Paid  ! of  course  they  are.  What  the  d — 1 would  they  do  it 
for  unless  they  were  1 The  simplicity  of  some  people  passes  my  com- 
prehension. They  sta«d  there  to  stave  off  voters  for  other  people,  and 
get  votes  for  their  employers.  They  prevent  half  the  respectable  people 
in  New  York  from  voting  at  all ; and  your  respectable  people  have  a 
habit  of  scratching  their  tickets  and  voting  for  the  best  man,  without 
regard  to  his  political  affinities,  which  is  excessively  inconvenient  at 
times. 

Ten-per-cent.  Well,  come  along,  and  I’ll  give  you  a cheque. 

Froth.  We  must  be  in  a hurry — got  two  or  three  complimentary  be- 
nefits to  manage,  and  four  or  five  new  singers  to  trot  out. 

{Exit  Froth  and  Ten-per-cent,  l.  3 e. — Nutgalls  goes  l. 

Enter  Rose,  hurriedly , c. 

Rose,  (r.)  Dear  Mr.  Nutgalls,  I’m  glad  I’ve  found  you  alone  ; I’ve  a 
question  to  ask  you. 

Nut.  I never  answer  them  ; [Rose  looking  in  his  face.']  but  this  is 
such  a little  one,  you’ll  answer  it  to  please  me,  won’t  you  ? 

Nut.  {Aside.]  Now,  nothing  human  could  stand  that,  and  I am 
human,  though  I do  edit  a newspaper.  What  is  it — something  about 
hoops  or  horses  ? 

Rose.  You  misjudge  me,  like  every  one  else.  Nobody  knows  me, 
really,  except  Wash,  and — and \fHesitates, 

Nut.  Ah,  there’s  somebody  else  ! 

Rose.  Never  mind.  I want  to  ask  you  what  you  think  of  me. 

Nut.  I think  you  are  a very  nice  young  woman — a bit  spoiled — a 
little  too  fast  for  my  taste,  and  a little  too  frivolous  for  the  real  business 
of  life. 

Rose.  Yes,  you’re  like  all  the  men  ; they  are  continually  pitching  into 
us  for  our  extravagance,  yet  the  lady  who  is  the  most  richly  dressed, 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK.  11 

always  has  the  greatest  number  of  gentlemen  in  her  train  : how  do  you 
account  for  that,  my  Diogenes  1 

Nut.  You  mistake  me.  I do  not  object  to  dress.  A lovely  woman 
is  never  so  handsome  as  when  richly  dressed.  What.  I object  to  is  ex- 
travagance in  attire  without  taste,  and  a reckless,  vulgar  display,  which 
only  makes  the  wearer  absurd.  That’s  what  you  may  see  any  fine 
afternoon  in  Broadway  ; and  it  always  makes  me  think  that  a woman’s 
brains  are  too  small,  even  for  the  bonnets  they  wear  now-a-days,  and 
that  her  common  sense  might  easily  be  wrapped  up  in  the  smallest  cor- 
ner of  her  gaudy  shawl.  But  when  I said  frivolous,  I did  not  mean 
dress,  particularly,  I meant  to  say  that  you,  like  too  many  fashionable 
young  ladies,  paid  little  attention  to  matters  of  real  consequence,  such 
as  fitting  yourself  for  the  responsible  duties  which  you  will  be  one  day 
called  upon  to  perform  ; still  I think  there’s  a great  deal  of  good  in  you. 

Rose.  [ Laughing .]  Much  obliged  for  the  compliment,  bear,  though  I 
don’t  think  much  of  it.  Now  I am  going  to  be  serious — I feel  strangely 
impelled  to  confide  in  you.  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Crawl  ? 

Nut.  (l.)  He’s  a good  sort  of  fellow  enough  in  his  way,  but 

Rose.  But  you  don’t  like  his  way  1 I thought  so.  He  has  proposed 
to  me  a great  many  times,  and  I have  refused  him,  and  pa  says  I must 
have  him  ; and  I can’t,  and  I won’t.  [ Sobbing .]  I’ve  talked  to  W ash . 
about  it,  but  he  and  pa  are  not  on  the  best  terms,  and  ma  is  in  favor  of 
it,  and — and — I — I — [&o6s.J  I’m  the  most  miserable  little  woman  in  the 
world. 

Nut.  [Aside.]  Here’s  a situation  for  a cynic,  [To  Rose.]  And  you 
love  somebody  else,  I presume  1 

Rose.  [Still  sobbing .]  Y — y — yes. 

Nut.  Well,  why  don’t  the  governor  have  himl  What’s  the  matter 
with  him  ? 

Rose.  Oh,  nothing — that  is,  ’not  much  of  anything.  He  hasn’t  got 
any  money  ! 

Nut.  Ahem  ! That’s  a great  deal  in  New  York.  One,  who  has  no 
money  here,  may  as  well  hang  himself,  or  go  to  Kansas,  which  is  a 
cheap  and  agreeable  means  of  suicide.  Through  tickets,  twenty  dollars 
No  charge  for  a rifle  bullet  in  the  head.  You’re  not  fit,  Rose,  to  be  a 
poor  man’s  wife  ; like  too  many  American  girls,  you  have  been  brought 
up  in  utter  ignorance  of  what  you  should  have  been  taught,  and  are 
vastly  well  informed  upon  things  of  no  sort  of  value. 

Rose.  [Stoutly.]  But  one  thing  I do  know,  and  that  is,  I will  marry 
the  man  I choose,  whether  he’s  got  sixpence  or  not,  and  I will  labor 
to  the  last  of  my  ability  to  make  him  happy.  I know  enough  for  that, 
and  the  will  goes  a long  way  in  such  matters — don’t  it,  old  bear  1 

Nut.  Bravo  ! little  one.  There’s  some  hope  of  you,  yet.  But,  don’t 
do  anything  rashly.  I don’t  think  Crawl  deserves  you,  and  will  help  to 
defeat  him.  But  you  must  remember  that  if  you  marry  any  one  who . 
is  not  in  society — an  artist 

Rose.  Oh  ! 

Nut.  Yes,  I think  I know  your  secret.  If  you  marry  any  one  of  that 
sort,  you’ll  suffer  a great  deal ; you’ll  be  cut  by  your  old  friends,  out- 
lawed from  society,  and  otherwise  be  made  to  feel  very  uncomfortable. 


1 1> 
1 


YulNG  NEW  YORK. 


Rose.  I don’t  care  for  any  of  them.  They  affect  to  despise  people 
who  are  superior  to  them  in  every  respect.  13ut,  I must  run  away ; it’s 
getting  late.  Good  night.  [Offers  hand. 

Nut.  [Takes  hand  ] Good  night,  my  little  friend,  and  good  luck. 

[ Walks  up  piazza , l.  3 e. 

[Rose  goes  to  window  in  c.,  and  meets  Skibberini — Skibberini 
takes  her  hand , and  they  come  down  r. 

Skib.  One  moment  — have  you  considered  my  proposition  ! Will 
your  father  relent  1 

Rose . (l.)  No,  there’s  been  a cabinet  council,  and  I don’t  see  that 
Iheie’s  any  hope  of  mollifying  the  governor;  I think  he’s  influenced 
by  that  Crawl.  Stupid  wretch  ! I hate  the  sight  of  him.  Oh ! Skib, 
what’s  the  use  of  your  being  a nobleman,  if  you  haven’t  got  a cent  of 
money? 

Crawl  enters  r.  slily. 

Crawl.  Good  heavens  ! there  he  is  making  love  to  her  before  my  face. 
It’s  shameful ; I’ll  get  far  enough  away  so  they  can’t  see  me,  and  listen 
to  their  conversation.  [Steps  back  to  r.  h.  e.,  and  as  he  does  so 

Enter  R.  Washington,  a little  intoxicated , runs  against  Craw>. 

Wash.  Carom  on  the  white  ball.  Bad  shot  of  yours,  that,  sir,  never- 
should  hold  your  cue  in  that  clumsy  way.  Pretty  thing,  that  Brindisi; 
ever  hear  Yestvali  sing  it  1 [ySiwgs]  ’Tis  better  to  love  than — 

[Crawl  puts  his  hand  on  Washington’s  mouth. 

Crawl.  Be  quiet,  sir. 

[Rose  and  Skib.  converse  in  whispers , seated  l.  c. 

Wash.  (r.  c.)  Splendid  woman — never  saw  anything  like  her,  even 
in  Paris — Paris  great  place — great  boots — ever  see  La  Grange’s  boots 
in  the  North  Star!  the  only  thing  in  the  opera  good  for  anything,  I 
assure  you.  What’s  the  row  1 Who’s  that  young  woman ! 

Crawl.  Such  disgraceful  proceedings,  sir. 

Wash.  That’s  jolly  good.  I like  disgraceful  things. 

Rose.  I say  again,  if  you  only  had  money 

Wash.  What’s  that  about  money  1 

Skib.  But  I have  something  better,  I have  my  profession  ; tenors  are 
valuable  in  this  country.  Your  people  pay  us  twice  as  much  as  we  can 
get  in  Europe.  Why  should  you  care  for  the  governor!  Let  us  run 
away,  and  he’s  sure  to  forgive  us — I don’t  think  you  love  me  at  all. 

Wash.  Hurrah  ! Don’t  care  for  his  governor,  no  more  do  I — that’s 
the  talk ! 

Rose.  I do  love  you,  Skib,  earnestly,  devotedly  ; and  when  we  Ame- 
rican women  really  are  caught,  it’s  for  good  and  all. 

Crawl.  He  may  have  caught  her,  but  keeping  her  is  another  affair 
altogether. 

Wash.  That’s  so — I wonder  what  it’s  all  about? 

Skib.  You  don’t  know  how  happy  you've  made  the  poor  artist  by  this 
avowal.  1 would  not  give  this  moment  for  all  the  plaudits  of  the  Aca- 
demy. 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


13 


Wash . Yes,  I know  some  fellows  go  there  to  appl  ml — don’t  you, 
Crawl  ? 

Crawl.  I never  frequent  profane  places  of  public  amusement — but 
listen. 

Rose.  I’m  yours,  for  ever! 

Crawl.  Not  yet. 

Skib.  Oh.  ecstasy  ! 

Wash.  [To  Crawl.]  I say,  old  fel — it  ain’t  gentlemanly  for  us  to  be 
trying  to  overhear 

Crawl.  [ Excitedly .]  Stop  ! 

Skib.  And  you’ll  run  away  with  me  ? 

Rose.  Won’t  you  let  me  confide  in  somebody  ? 

Wash.  I won’t  stop.  I say,  it  ain’t  the  correct  thing,  if  they  are 
going  to  run  away, — let  ’em  slide,  I don’t  care. 

Skib.  Confide  in  w'ho  ? 

Crawl.  Yes,  who? — let’s  learn. 

Wash.  Bran  and  water,  I say. 

Rose.  Why,  in  Wash. 

Skib.  What ! in  that  stupid  brother  of  yours  ? 

Crawl.  Ah  ! 

Wash.  Who’s  that,  that’s  stupid?  [Crosses  to  c. 

Crawl.  T Coolly.']  Only  you. 

Wash.  [ Excited , c.]  Only  me.  That’s  good. 

Rose.  He's  my  dear  brother,  and  the  only  one  in  the  family  I care 

about,  and  he’s  really  sensible  enough,  if  he  had 

Skib.  Any  brains. 

Crawl.  [To  Wash.]  Do  you  hear  that? 

Wash.  Dem  it,  1 should  think  so.  That’s  rather  too  much,  you 
know. 

[Attempts  to  go  towards  Rose  and  Skibberini,  but  is  restrained  by 
Crawl,  and  in  struggles  to  get  away  drops  his  cane. 

Enter  Nutgalls,  l. — goes  to  Rose. 

Nut.  [Aside,  coming  down  l.]  There’s  going  to  be  a row  here.  Miss 
Rose,  your  maternal  parent,  fatigued  by  a tremendous  piano-forte  solo, 
played  by  an  interesting  amateur,  with  one  lung,  has  sent  me  to  look 
for  you.  [ Whispers .]  You  must  go  at  once.  [Offers  arm. 

Rose.  [Taking  his  arm,  to  Skib.]  Adieu! 

Skib.  [c.,  walking  slowly  to  l.]  Adieu  ! Ma  toute  belle. 

[Rose  and  Nutgalls  exit,  c.  n. ; Wash,  breaks  away  from  Crawl, 
and  comes  towards  Skib.  from  right. 

Wash.  [To  Skib.]  I say,  old  top,  look  here  ! 

Crawl.  This  will  be  dangerous,  so  I’ll  cut.  [Exit,  a. 

Skib.  Well,  sir  ! 

Wash.  You  called  me  stupid  ! 

Skib.  Well! 

Wash.  [Threatening  with  cane.]  I’m  going  tc  Sumnerise  you! 

Skib.  Bless  your  heart,  I’m  not  a Senator  ! 

Wash.  Yes,  but  I don’t  discriminate  between  the  man  and  the  act 
You’re  a tenor,  and  I’m  going  to  smash  your  ufper  register.  What  do 
you  think  of  this  for  a shake  ? [Flourishing  stick  oi  cr  Skib’s.  head 


14 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Enter  Froth,  c.  d. — hurriedly  rushes  down  and  seizes  Wash’s  arm. 

Froth.  [To  Wash.]  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I have  a pecuniary  interest 
in  this  piece  of  property. 

Wash.  Go  away.  Froth. 

Skib.  I beg  you  won’t  interfere,  sir. 

Froth.  Yes,  but  I will.  He  is  engaged  by  me  to  kindly  volunteer  his 
services  [Aside.]  for  fifty  dollars  for  the  complimentary  concert  to 
Madame  de  Blowhardi.  for  fifty  years  prima  donna  assoluta  of  the 
opera,  and  now  incapacitated  by  an  accidental  circumstance — [Aside.] 
old  age — from  continuing  the  duties  of  her  profession. 

Wash.  Nonsense  1 [Attempts  to  strike  Skib. 

Enter,  c.  d.,  Nutgalls — seizes  Wash,  and  draws  him  away  to  r.,  while 
Froth  draws  Skib.  to  l. 

Nut.  We’ll  settle  this  at  the  Clifton  House. 

TABLEAU. 

END  OF  ACT  I. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Basement  of  Mr.  Ten-per-cent’s  house;  comfortable  room  ; 

mirror;  book-cases;  library  chairs ; lunch  table,  with  decanters , c. ; 

doors,  r.  and  l. 

Froth  discovered  at  table,  l. 

Froth.  Nice  business  we’ve  made  of  this,  all  round  ! Grand  smash- 
up  at  Saratoga — bad  as  an  operatic  imbroglio.  Rose — nice  young 
woman,  that — ought  to  be  Mrs.  Froth  ; but  matrimony  is  such  a bore — 
Rose  shut  off  the  duel,  and  knocked  one  pin  out  of  Mr.  Crawl.  Then 
there  was  a grand  flare-up  with  the  old  lady,  and  then  Skibberini  dis- 
appeared, and  then  old  Blowhardi’s  benefit  went  off  the  hooks,  and 
then  I couldn’t  find  out  what  all  the  row  was  about,  and  then  I took  all 
the  money  I laid  out  in  blowing  for  old  Blowhardi,  and  then 

Enter  Oerulia,  r.  f.,  reading. 

Ah  ! there’s  that  sweet  little  bit  of  Bay  State  granite.  I'll  soften  her 
with  a little  suaviter  in  modo.  [Aloud.]  Good  morning,  Miss  Sawin — 
how  charming  is 

Cerulia.  [Reading,  r.]  A petrified  frog  discovered  on  the  banks  of 
the  Connecticut. 

Froth.  I was  saying  that  Broadway 

Cerulia.  WThere  it  had  been  found  in  the  fourth  formation,  which 
shows  that  it  must  have  been 

Froth.  That  the  ladies  on  Broadway 

Cerulia.  Must  have  been  imbedded  since  the  eighth  century.  [Looks 
up,  sees  Froth  ] Ah  ! Mr.  Froth,  is  that  you  "I 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


15 


Froth.  It  is — at  least,  I believe  so.  How  splendidly  you  are  look- 

^Cerulia  Yes— I was  looking  for  the  transactions  of  the  American 
Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science.  Those  sweet  Professors  ! 

[Goes  to  hook' case. 

Froth.  [Aside.]  Yes,  they  are  a sweet  set.  Jupiter!  if  a joker 
wanted  to  make  love  to  her,  now,  she’d  go  into  a philosophical  disquisition 
on  the  origin  and  progress  of  the  divine  passion.  [Aloud  ] I say,  Miss 
Cerulia,  is°the  lady  patroness  of  the  establishment  visible  . 

Cerulia.  No— I entertained  her  for  half-an-hour  with  such  a dear, 
transcendental  essay  on  the  duality  of  the  soul.  And  what  do  you 

think  she  said  1 , , , r a i j 

Froth.  Haven’t  an  idea—  [Aside.]  That  it  was  a humbug  ! [Aloud.] 

Something  complimentary,  undoubtedly. 

Cerulia.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  She  said  it  was  a horrid  bore,  and 
ordered  the  carriage  for  the  Orphan  Asylum. 

Froth.  Yes to  bore  the  little  dears,  and  do  up  some  fashionable  be- 

nevolence. Where’s  Miss  Rose  1 

Cerulia.  Oh,  she  went  up  to  Newburgh  yesterday,  to  see  one  of  her 
old  schoolmates.  [Crosses  to  r.]  Good  morning,  Mr.  Froth.  [Going, 
a.,  Reading,  walks  against  wing , i.  1 e.,  Froth  corrects  her,  and  shews 
her  the  door. 

Froth.  [Opening  r.  d.  f.]  Good  morning,  Miss.  * [Exit  Cerulia. 
Ah  ! I see  a big  light.  I wouldn’t  wonder  if  there  should  be  a grand 
row  somewhere  in  this  neighborhood.  That  Rose  isn’t  the  sort  of 
person  that  goes  seventy  miles  to  see  some  bread  and  butter  school 
girl.  No,  indeed  ! I wouldn’t  wonder  if  she’d  gone  and  done  and  run 
away  with  Skibberini,  just  out  of  unutterable  despair  at  not  getting  me. 
[ Looks  in  mirror , and  twirls  his  moustache.]  W hat  a wretch  I am,  to 
be  sure.  ' 

Enter  Ten-per-cent,  in  a passion,  l. 

Ten-per-cent.  D— n it ! I say,  confound  it ! Who’s  that  looking  in 

my  mirror  1 I say,  sir 1 said  d — n it ! I repeat  the  remark 

d — n it  ! 

Froth.  [Turning  round.]  Certainly  ! D — n what  1 Never  mind, 

d — n anything  you  like.  An  elderly,  irrascible  gentleman,  with  half  a 
million,  has  a perfect  right  to  anathematize  anything  he  sees  fit.  I am 
happy  to  coincide  with  you d — nit! 

Ten-per-cent.  [ Walking  up  and  down.]  Oh  ! it’s  you,  is  it,  Froth  l 

Froth.  That’s  the  second  time  I’ve  been  questioned,  this  morning,  as 
to  my  identity.  Yes,  it  is  me.  I shall  begin  to  swear  presently. 

Ten-per-cent.  That  infernal  rascal  ! If  I only  had  him  here 

Froth.  [Pouring  wine , c ] Come,  old  fellow,  you’re  excited.  Take 
a drop  of  sherry.  No  man  ever  got  into  a rage  on  sherry. 

Ten-per-cent.  D — n sherry  ! D — n everything  ! 

Froth.  Precisely!  D— n everything!  But  what’s  the  difficulty, 
that  everybody  has  got  to  be  d — d this  particular  morning,  and  saved 
all  the  rest  of  the  week  ] What’s  the  row  l 

Ten-per-cent,  [r.,  Taking  letter  and  newspaper  from  pocket.]  Row 


16 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


enough ! Read  that.  [ Gives  them  to  Froth.]  Oh ! the  infernal 
scoundrel ! 

Froth,  [l  Reading  note.']  “Dear  Pa!  I have  to  ask  your  forgive- 
ness. Skib.  and  I were  married  this  morning.  Wash,  said  he  thought 
you  wouldn’t  be  able  to  arrange  your  business  in  Wall  street,  and  so  he 
gave  me  away,  and  did  it  splendidly.  It  was  rural,  and  very  nice.  "We 

are  going  to  the  Falls,” 

Ten-per-cent.  I should  like  to  pitch  them  over  the  Falls  ! 

Froth.  No  you  wouldn’t.  [Reads.~\  “ Going  to  the  Falls  for  our 
wedding  tour,  and  then  return  to  town,  to  throw  ourselves  at  your 
patent  leathers.  You’ll  forgive  us,  won’t  you.  Pa  1 Skib.  is  such  a 
nice  fellow.  He  and  Wash,  send  their  respects.  Adieu,  mon  fere. 

“ Your  affectionate  daughter,  Rose. 

“ P.  S.  I send  such  a nice  article  about  us,  out  of  the  ‘ Spuyten 
Duyvil  Blast  of  Freedom.'1  Wash,  has  been  playing  billiards  all  the 
time,  with  the  Editor,  and  got  him  to  put  it  in  for  a leader. 

“ Spuyten  Duyvil,  Monday.” 

Ten-per-cent.  I should  like  to  punch  his  head. 

Froth.  It’s  dangerous,  punching  editors’  heads,  now-a-days.  A joker 
got  into  the  Tombs  for  indulging  in  that  luxury,  the  other  day.  What’s 
this  1 [ Reads  from  Newspaper. 

“ Marriage  in  High  Life.— Our  little  village  was  thrown  into  a 
perfect  furor  of  excitement  on  Wednesday  last,  by  a wedding  in  high 
life.  The  gallant  bridegroom  is  Count  Patrici  de  Skibberini,  who  is 
descended  from  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  Italy,  and  who  has  been 
favorably  known  as  an  artiste  of  the  opera  ; and  the  bride  is  Miss  Rose 
Ten-per-cent,  the  daughter  of  one  of  New  York’s  most  distinguished 
merchant  princes.  The  ceremony  was  performed  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Smith,  at  his  residence,  and  we,  with  others  of  the  principal  men  of  this 
town,  had  the  honor  of  being  present.  The  bride,  who  was  the  belle 
of  Saratoga  last  season,  looked  bewilderingly  beautiful,  and  every  one 
envied  the  happy  bridegroom.  The  happy  pair,  after  a brief  sojourn  at 
the  American  Eagle  Hotel,  which  is  kept  in  the  best  manner,  by  our 
old  friend,  G.  Washington  Jones, — (see  advertisement  in  another  co- 
lumn,)— departed  for  Niagara  Falls,  whence,  after  tarrying  a short  time, 
they  will  proceed  to  New  York,  and  thence  to  Italy,  where  the  Count 
has  a beautiful  villa,  by  the  Lake  of  Como,  so  eloquently  described  by 
Bulwer,  in  that  beautiful  piety.  ‘ The  Lady  of  Lyons,’ — to  be  performed 
this  evening,  for  the  first  time  in  this  town,  by  Robinson’s  superior 
travelling  company,  admission  fifteen  cents — commencing — ‘ In  a deep 
vale,  shut  out  by  Alpine  hills,’  &c.  The  happy  pair  have  our  best 
wishes  for  their  continued  prosperity.” 

Ten-per-cent.  There.  Sir!  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

Froth.  I think  it’s  highly  amusing.  I’J  like  to  know  tnat  editor. 
He  ought  to  be  on  the  ‘ Home  Journal .’ 

Ten-per-cent.  D — n the  editor  ! Curse  the  whole  party  ! He’s 
married  her  for  my  money — but.  not  a single  red  cent  of  it  will  he  get. 
And  Wash,  in  it,  too.  After  all  I've  done  for  thoge  children,  [ patheti- 
cally.]  spending  all  the  utnrv  f hav  - f - ■ heir  education,  so  they’d 
know  how  to  spend  my  money  in  a respectable  manner.  [ Crosses , r. 


YOUNG  NSW  YORK. 


17 


Froth,  [l.,  Aside.]  Something  that  you  don’t  know,  yet  ! 

Ten-per-cent.  [ angrily  ] To  have  them  fool  me  in  that  way  ! T’ll  fix 
’em  ! I’ll  cut  ’em  off  with  a dollar  apiece  ! [Crouses,  l. 

Froth,  [r.]  And  leave  your  money  to  some  Missionary  Society,  I 
suppose  ? That’s  the  way  they  do  it  now — it’s  taking  your  funds  to 
begin  the  next  world  with.  I came  to  talk  with  you  about  politics  ; — » 
things  are  looking  ugly  for  us 

Ten-per-cent,  [enraged.]  Stop ! I’ve  had  trouble  enough  for  one 
day. 

Froth.  Well,  I’ll  cut  then — Better  forgive  the  young  ’uns. 

Ten-per-cent.  No  ! no  ! 

Froth.  Good  bye,  governor. — Got  a lot  of  puffs  to  write  for  Brown’s 
double  rotary  back  action  steam  egg  hatcher,  and  attend  three  political 
conventions,  [r.]  Good  bye.  [Exit  R.  h. 

Ten-per-cent.  [ Sitting  at  table  l.,  his  face  concealed  in  his  hands.] 
Good  bye,  Froth.  If  you  see  any  body  I know,  tell  ’em  I have  gone  to 
bleeding  Kansas. 

Enter  Mrs.  Ten-per-cent,  l,  in  great  glee,  shewing  large  card. 

Mrs.  Ten.  (l.)  I’ve  got  it ! I’ve  got  it ! It’s  the  first  party  of  the 
season,  and  now  every  body  must  ask  me.  What’s  the  matter  with 
that  man  1 Been  drinking,  I suspect.  Awful  beast  ! Mr.  Ten-per- 
cent? wake  up,  sir. 

Ten-per-cent.  [r.  of  table,  not  looking  up.]  I’m  glad  you  are  so  happy, 
madam.  [Aside.]  I’ll  fix  her  in  a minute. 

Mrs.  Ten.  Yes,  I am  happy.  Look  at  this  ! [Flourishes  card.]  Mrs. 
Delaney  Ten  Brceck  sends  me  a card  for  the  first  party.  I’ve  been 
trying  to  get  into  that  set  for  five  years. 

Ten-per-cent.  [Aside.]  Yes,  and  now  you’ve  got  in,  only  to  be  kicked 
out  again.  [Aloud]  Is  that  the  paste  board  ? It’s  big  enough  ? 

Mrs.  Ten.  Yes — Mrs.  Ten  Brceck  is  an  old  Knickerbocker,  and  does 
every  thing  in  the  highest  style.  I’ll  read  it  to  you.  [Reads.] 


Mrs.  Delancy  Ten  Brceck  solicits  the  pleasure 
of  Mr.  & Mrs.  Ten-per-cent's  company  on  Thurs- 
day evening. 

433  Fifth  Avenue.  R.  S.  Y.  P. 


There,  sir  ! I hope  you  will  try  to  dress  yourself  like  a gentleman,  at 
least.  There's  a card  for  Rose,  and  one  for  Wash.,  too.  I’ve  got  such 
a love  of  a dress — cost  $300,  and  the  lace  as  much  more.  [/Sfas  l. 

Ten-per-cent,  [sarcastically.]  No  doubt.  I think  it’s  a bad  invest- 
ment. So,  there’s  a card  for  Rose,  and  one  for  Wash.,  eh?  Pray  is 
there  one  for  Rose’s — Rose’s — madam,  for  Rose’s  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Ten.  [astonished.]  Her  what  ? 

Ten-per-cent.  Not  her  what!  her  husband — husband,  I said,  madam, 
— her  husband. 

Mrs.  Ten.  [aside]  He  has  been  drinking.  I’ll  look  out  for  the  keys 
of  the  wine  closet  hereafter.  [Aloud  ] You’d  better  take  a little  opium, 
my  dear,  pvt  some  ice  on  your  head,  and  go  to  b"ed.  I’m  afraid  you’re 


18 


YOUNG  NEW  1 OKK. 


Ten-per-cent.  No,  madam — it  is  you  who  will  be  ill  in  a moment.— 
Where  is  your  daughter? 

Mrs.  Ten.  Gone  to  Newburgh,  to  see  Miss  Highflyer,  her  old  school- 
mate. Her  father  failed,  you  know,  my  love,  and  gave  up  every  thing 
to  his  creditors,  and  they  only  spend  twenty  thousand  a year,  now, 
and  live  in  rural  retirement. 

Ten-per-cent.  Really  ! is  that  all  1 Madam,  Rose  has  not  gone  to 
Newburgh.  She  has  run  away  with  that  maccaroni-chewing,  cigar- 
smoking, garlic-devouring,  mustache-curling,  d d blackguard — 

Mrs.  Ten.  Oh,  dear! 

Ten-per-cent.  Of  an  opera  singer,  Skibberinini,  or  what  ever  his 

d d name  is  ! That  ever  I should  have  a son-in  law,  with  a 

name  I couldn’t  pronounce.  [Crosses  l. 

Mrs.  Ten.  [Hesitating, — going  k.]  And  they  are  married  ? 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes. 

Enter  Crawl,  r.  2.  e. 

Mrs.  Ten.  Oh,  dear  ! I feel  very  ill — where’s  my  salts  ? [Staggers,  r.J 
Married  1 — every  body  will  think  I’m  growing  old. — Oh  ! oh  ! 

[Faints  in  Crawl’s  arms,  r. 

Crawl.  I beg  your  pardon — really,  sir,  won’t  you  be  kind  enough  to 
relieve  me  1 

Ten-per-cent.  No  ! I’ve  found  her  dead  weight  enough  for  years. 
She’s  only  got  a fashionable  faint. 

Mrs.  Ten.  [Recovering ,]  Silence,  sir  ! where’s  my  salts  ? 

Crawl.  Ah°w  me. — [Takes  paper  from  pocket.]  No,  that’s  notit — 
that’s  a tract  on  the  Necessity  of  Politics  in  the  Pulpit.  Here  it  is 
[Gives  her flacon  to  Ten-per-cent.]  Allow  me,  sir,  to  direct  your  atten- 
tion to  this  soul  stirring  publication. 

[Gives  tract  to  Mu.  Ten-per-cent,  then  leads  Mrs.  Ten.  to  sofa , r. 

Ten-per-cent.  I feel  more  like  a soul  stirring  whiskey  punch.  But 
have  you  heard  the  news  1 

Mrs  Ten.  [Springing  up.']  I’ll  tell  him  ! 

Ten-per-cent.  No,  you  won’t ! 

Mrs.  Ten.  You’re  a brute.  [Sits. 

Ten-per-cent.  This  is  my  basement,  madam  ; you  can  rule  in  the  par- 
lors, but  I’m  king  here.  You  will  oblige  me  by  retiring. 

Mrs.  Ten.  I shall  oblige  myself  by  doing  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Crawl.  Really,  sir — this  scene — do  you  know  what  St.  Paul  says  ! 

Teh-per-cent.  No  ! d — n St.  Paul ! 

Crawl,  (c.)  Good  gracious  ! d — n St.  Paul — I never,  really,  heard  of 
such  a thing.  But,  perhaps,  sir,  you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  the 
news  1 

Mrs.  Ten.  You  must  know  that  Rose — that  is — it’s  all  his  faul 
[Points  to  Mr.  Ten-per-cent.] — he  spoil’d  both  of  them. 

Ten-per-cent.  It  is  falsej  madam  ! You  insisted  upon  her  learning 
Italian  music,  and  all  such  nonsense. 

Crawl,  [c.  Aside.]  Something  about  Rose,  I begin  to  be  afraid  — 
[Aloud.]  Pray  tell  me.  „ 

Mrs.  Ten.  [To  Crawl.]  Excuse  me,  sir.  [ To  Mr.  T.]  1 have  given 


1T0UNG  NEW  YORK.  19 

Rose  the  education  due  to  her  position.  It  was  you  that  taught  her  to 
drive  horses,  and  have  terriers,  and  all  sorts  of  low  things. 

Ten-per-cent.  She  ought  to  have  been  taught  to  make  puddings  and 
mend  stockings. 

Crawl.  She’d  never  do  it,  I fear. 

Mrs.  Ten.  Odious  ideal  Young  ladies  are  not  utilitarian  articles — 
they  are  objects  of  virtu 

Ten-per-cent.  Objects  of  vice,  more  likely.  I wish  you  would  con- 
trive to  keep  your  tongue  still  for  half  a moment,  till  I can  tell  Mr.  Crawl 
about  this  unfortunate  business. 

Mrs.  Ten.  Why,  you’ve  been  talking  all  the  time — I haven’t  had  an 
opportunity  to  say  a word. 

Crawl.  Ah ! [Aside.]  You’ve  done  pretty  well  without  an  oppor- 
tunity. 

Ten-per-cent.  [To  Crawl.]  To  make  it  short,  you  must  know  that 
Rose  has  run  away  with  that  infernal  opera  singer. 

Crawl.  [Suppressing  emotion .]  And  are  they — married  ? 

Ten -per-cent.  [Sternly.']  Yes! 

Mrs.  Ten.  It’s  lucky  he’s  a count — that’s  something. 

Crawl.  [Bitterly.]  Pshaw!  you  may -buy  patents  of  nobility  for  twenty 
shillings  ! [Recovers  his  usual  manner.]  But,  my  dear  sir,  and  madam, 
allow  me  to  condole  with  you.  In  a worldly  point  of  view,  it  is  a sad 
disappointment  to  me,  but — 

Ten-per-cent.  Why  the  devil  didn’t  you  run  away  with  her  yourself? 

Crawl.  Good  Heavens  ! me  run  away  with  any  body  ? What  would 
the  Grace  Church  people  say  ? As  I was  about  to  remark,  I seek  con- 
solation in  a spiritual  point  of  view. 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes — I’ve  heard  that  the  young  men,  when  they  art 
jilted,  usually  take  to  brandy  cocktails  for  the  first  six  weeks  or  so. 

Mrs.  Ten.  Suicide  is  more  dignified.  But  what  have  you  to  advise, 
Mr.  Crawl? 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes,  Crawl,  what  shall  we  do? 

Crawl.  Well,  these  artists  are  all  low  fellows,  with  an  ungodly  love 
of  Mammon,  and — 

[Bell  rings  without,  accompanied  by  noise  and  confusion,  in  the 
midst  of  which  is  heard  Rose’s  voice. 

Rose.  [ Without.]  There,  that’ll  do  ; thank  you.  Put  four  of  those 
trunks  in  my  dressing-room,  and  the  other  ten  you  may  leave  here  for 
the  present.  Where’s  ma? 

Mrs.  Ten.  (r.)  That’s  Rose  ! 

Crawl  opens  r.  d.  f.  Enter  Rose,  hastily,  Crawl  gives  her  his  hand. 

Crawl,  (r.  c.)  Allow  me,  Miss  Rose — I beg  pardon — Madame  la 
Comtesse,  to  tender  to  you  my  warmest  congratulations,  and  my  sin- 
cerest  wishes  for  your  future  welfare.  My  heart  bleeds — 

Rose.  (l.  c.)  Thank  you,  Mr.  Crawl,  that’ll  do — I don’t  care  to  hear 
a sermon.  If  your  heart  bleeds,  Rule  will  fix  it  up  for  you,  she’s  great 
on  surgery. 

Crawl.  [Aside,  going , r.)  I’ll  have  you  yet. 

[He  is  about  to  exit,  r.,  when 


20 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Enter  Wash.,  r.  He  runs  against  Crawl. 

Wash.  Ah  ! old  fellow!  [Exit  Crawl,  r.]  Keep  up — beaten  at  youf 
own  game — better  luck  next  time.  They’ve  been  taking  two  to  one  on 
you,  I’m  afraid. 

[Rose  awe?  Wash,  at  lack  of  stage,  looking  intently  at  Mr.  awe?  Mrs. 
T.  Rose  comes  down  slowly  to  where  Mrs.  T.  sits.  Wash,  goes 
very  slowly  to  Mr.  and  then  to  Mrs.  T.,  they  turn  their  backs. 
Wash,  takes  glass  of  wine,  arid  sits  carelessly  on  edge  of  table , 
L.  u.  E. 

Rose.  My  dear  mother — 

Mrs.  Ten.  Don’t  talk  to  me,  miss  !— such  disgraceful  proceedings  ! 

Ten-per-cent.  Awful ! 

Wash.  Nothing  of  the  kind,  governor.  Every  thing  was  done  with- 
out regard  to  expense.  Told  ’em  to  go  it  strong,  and  you’d  pay  all  the 
bills.  Had  the  whole  town  tight  as  bricks,  before  dinner. 

j Rose.  Hush,  Wash  ! [ Goes  to  Mrs.  T.  and  endeavors  to  embrace  her. 
Is  repulsed. ] I am  sensible  that  we  have  done  wrong  in  part,  but  I have 
come  to  acknowledge  it,  and  ask  pardon.  I never  would  have  anybody 
but  Skib,  and — and — [ Bursts  into  tears. 

Wash.  Go  it,  Rose. 

Ten-per-cent.  [Wiping  his  eyes.]  I can’t  stand  this.  [Going,  n.]  I 
say.  Rose — 

Mrs.  Ten.  Silence,  sir  ! Rose,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
What  will  the  people  in  society  say  ( 

Rose.  Why,  ma,  you  shouldn't  have  asked  him  here,  if  I wasn’t  to 
fall  in  love  with  him.  It’s  done  now.  and  [energetically]  I am  bound  to 
have  him,  coute  que  coute. 

Wash.  That’s  right — go  it  Rose!  Freeze  fast  to  him. 

[Rose,  still  endeavoring  to  pacify  Mrs.  T.,  converses  apart  with  her. 
Washington  comes  down  slowly , and  goes  to  his  father , l.,  and 
offers  his  hand. 

Wash.  I say,  governor — [With  mock  gravity.'] — I forgive  you — let’s 
shake  hands  and  call  it  square.  I’m  magnanimous. 

Ten-per-cent.  [Enraged.]  You  young  rascal  ! I’ll  break  every  bone 
in  your  skin  ! How  dare  you  1 

Wash.  Now,  governor,  don’t  get  in  a passion.  Keep  easy.  [Seizes 
Mr.  T.’s  hand  and  shakes  it  heartily.]  There — it’s  all  right.  Take  a 
drink. 

Ten-per-cent.  Clear  out,  you  young  blackguard  ! Clear  out,  before  I 
break  ycur  head.  [$ite  l.  of  l.  table. 

Wash.  Don’t  let  your  angry  passions  rise.  Don’t  you  remember 
what  you  used  to  tell  me? — Your  little  hands,  &c.  Come  with  me, 
and  I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.  [Takes  his  arm — they  go  up  l.]  Greatest 
thing  you  ever  heard  of,  I assure  you. 

Mrs.  T.  and  Rose  come  down,  r. 

Rose.  (r.  c.)  [Pathetically.']  My  dear  mother,  I appeal  to  you  for  for- 
giveness. [ Takes  her  hand  ] You  have  been  too  kind  to  me.  You  have 
indulged  me  in  my  every  wish.  In  this  matter,  the  great  business  of 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


my  life,  I was  wrong  no;.  to  consult  you,  but  I was  carried  away  k 
impulses,  and  driven  to  desperation  by  the  odious  attentions  of’ 
ugly  Crawl.  I could  not  bear  the  sight  of  him  ! 

Mrs.  T.  [Sits,  and  turns  from  Rose.]  Mr.  Crawl  is  a very  nice 
son — rich,  and  goes  into  the  best  society.  You  should  not  speai 
that  manner  of  him.  It  is  highly  improper. 

Rose,  [earnestly .]  Mother,  do  not  speak  to  me  in  that  way. 
were  young  like  me,  once 

Mrs.  rl\  [indignantly.']  Child  ! 

Rose,  [apologetically.]  That  is — I mean,  you  fell  in  love  once. 

Mrs.  T.  Not  that  I remember.  I was  a well-bred  woman,  and 
do  not  fall  into  anything.  I had  no  money,  and  I suffered  your  fat 
because  he  had  some. 

Rose,  [aside,  c.]  I see  that  I shall  not  turn  this  stony  heart  by 
thos.  [aloud.]  Mother ! listen  to  what  I say.  We  can  and  will  e; 
even  in  the  shadow  of  your  displeasure.  I am  a woman.  I am  ei 


cipated  from  the  condition  of  a frivolous  coquette,  or  a fast  wate 
place  belle.  My  position  you  may  take  from  me — that’s  nothing, 
this  country,  as  I have  heard,  people  do  not  inherit  their  positio 
they  make  them.  I have  accomplishments — education — will.  I 
turn  them  to  account,  and  fight  the  battle  jo f life  for  myself. 

Wash.  (u.  e.)  Bravo,  Rose  ! I’m  with  you  ! 

Mrs.  T.  [sarcastically.]  Child!  do  you  know  what  this  battle  is 
you  talk  so  flippantly  of!  Do  you  know  what  poverty  is  1 Do 
know  what  it  is  to  descend  from  luxury  to  comparative  want!  To 
daily,  the  loss  of  things  to  which  you  have  always  been  accusto 
ponder  upon  every  dollar  that  you  expend — to  dress  out  of  the 
— to  be  out  of  the  world — to  wear  one  bonnet  a whole  year  1 

Rose,  [aside]  That  is  a terrible  hardship.  [Aloud.]  Yes,  I 
it  all.  I am  prepared  for  it  all.  I will  suffer  it  all. 

Mrs.  T.  [coaxingly,  going  c.]  Come,  Rose,  this  is  but  a pas 
fancy — give  up  this  man. 

Rose.  Never  ! He’s  my  husband  ! Good  or  bad — sink  or  swij 
fair  weather  or  foul — riches  or  poverty — money  or  no  money — I 
never  desert  him  ! 


Mrs.  T.  goes  to  r. 


Wash.  (u.  e.)  Bravo,  Rose!  I wonder  if  there  are  any  more  yc 
women  about  town,  who  are  open  for  a small  matrimonial  gam] 
pool  1 1 

Mrs.  T.  Give  him  up.  Your  father  shall  buy  him  off  with  sc 
thing  handsome — say  a thousand  dollars — and  we  wont  say  anytll 
more  about  Crawl.  Do — there’s  a good  girl.  [Kisses  ] 

Wash.  That’s  a compromise — but,  like  some  of  the  political  barge 
I’m  afraid  it  won’t  work  very  well. 

Rose.  Mother ! you’ve  had  my  answTer.  I am  his  wife — I love 
Do  you  understand  that  1 I love  him — love — love — LOVE  him  ! 

[Goes 

. Mrs.  T.  [aside]  What  spirit  she  has ! [aloud.]  We  shall  see. 

[To 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


ash.  [To  Rose.]  No  result,  eh  1 
j Rose.  [&a<%.]  Nonel 
Wash.  Well.  Keep  up,  sis — I’ll  take  a walk  down  Broadway,  and 
ok  at  the  young  women.  Great  fun.  that — they  like  it.  Good  bye. 

ernor — no  hard  feelings,  I hope.  If  you’ve  any  communications  for 
e,  you  can  address  me  at  the  club.  And  about  the  cheque — make  it 
yable  to  bearer.  I may  Have  to  turn  it  into  chips.  [Crosses  slowly  tc 
] Good  bye,  mother.  Au  revoir , Rose — you’re  a brick.  [Exit  r 
Ten-per-cent.  [Getting  up  to  Rose  ] Are  you  prepared  to  give  up  this 
nl 

Rose.  Never  ! 

Ten-per-cent.  Then  not  a cent  of  my  money  shall  he  have.  We’ll  see 
w long  it'll  be  before  he’ll  shirk  a wife  who’s  of  no  earthly  use  ; 

worse  than  all,  hasn’t  a second 

t s.  T.  Sir! 

en-per-cent.  Cent  in  the  world.  As  for  Wash.,  I’ll  pack  him  off  on 
’anton  voyage,  before  the  mast.  See  how  he’ll  like  that.  No  chance 
billiards  there.  [Chuckles.]  And  for  clubs,  he’ll  get  a rope’s  end. 
Rose.  Father,  you  will  pursue  your  own  course — allow  me  to  take 
ne.  [Goes  up. 

Enter  Jane,  l. — gives  note  to  Ten-per-cent,  and  exits. 

Ten-per-cent.  [Reading  note.']  Ah  ! Crawl’s  fist ! [To  Rose.]  Stop  a 
ment.  [To  Mrs.  T.]  Come  here — it’s  all  right.  Rose,  come  to  your 
ther’s  arms.  Oh,  be  joyful ! — ha!  ha!  ha!  I thought  so — just 
hese  foreign  vagabonds — ha  ! ha ! ha  ! 

.rs.  T.  [Taking  letter.]  Precisely — yes;  but  what  fools  he  has 
le  of  us. 

ose.  [Joyfully.]  And  do  you  forgive  us  1 
Ten^-per-cent.  ^ yes.  [Gaily.]  [Rose  embraces  them  both. 

ose.  [ With  emotion.]  This  is  almost  too  good  news  to  be  true. 
rsses  her  mother  ] I’ll  run  and  get  Skib.  I left  him  in  the  carriage, 
how  glad  he’ll  be  ! [Exit,  running , k.  d.  f. 

Enter  Crawl,  r. 


Crawl.  Well,  are  you  satisfied  1 . 

frs.  T.  Oh,  how  much  we  are  indebted  to  you ! 

Ten-per-cent.  Yes,  old  fellow— call  on  me  for  anything  you  like. 
Crawl,  [r.,  mock  humility.]  My  reward  is  not  of  the  earth,  earthy, 
highest  satisfaction  was  to  preserve  yonder  fair  maiden  from 
clutches  of  the  destroyer. 


Enter  Rose,  l. — she  is  much  agitated. 

ose.  [Coming  doum,  c.]  He’s  not  there.  He  promised,  faithfully, 
to  go  until  he  saw  me.  There’s  something  wrong.  [ Turns — sees 
wl.]  Ah  ! this  is  your  work  ! [ Shudders , and  is  falling — Crawl 

orts  her — she  waves  him  back  with  disgust.]  Mother  ! tell  me  what 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


it  is.  [Looks  earnestly  in  their  faces — then  at  Crawl.'  Mother!  Mothe 
save  me  from  that  man  ! [ Faints  in  Mas.  T.’s  arm 

Crawl,  (c.)  She’s  mine  ! 

END  OF  ACT  II. 


• ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Editorial  rooms  of  the  Scorcher  ; plain  room  ; maps  and 
of  newspapers  on  flat,  r a writing-desk , covered  with  newspapers 

baskets  for  waste  paper.  Oner  the  desk  a sign,  inscribed — “ Don’t  spe- 
to  the  man  at  the  wheel.”  — 

Nut.  [ Discovered  at  desk,  holding  up  manuscript .]  Then  I thi 
that’ll  do.  Yes — [Reads.]  lovely  young  lady — accustomed  to  the  be 
society — circumstances  oblige  her  to  make  use  of  talent  intended  1 
drawing-room,  for  entertainment  of  public — native  talent — had  tl 
pleasure  of  hearing  her  in  private — splendid  organ,  goes  up  to  dou 
X flat,  and  could  go  another  X if  she  tried — great  shake,  trills  like 
running  brook — America  should  be  proud  of  her  ; yes,  that’s  pret 
strong,  but  it’s  necessary  to  go  it  rather  powerfully,  now-a-days,  to  a 
tract  any  attention.  New  York  is  like  a stupid  child,  it  takes  no  noti 
of  anything  but  sugar  plums  and  bass  drums. 

Enter  Froth,  l. 

Mr.  Froth,  how  are  you  1 Where  have  you  been  this  age  1 

Froth.  Don’t  you  know  "I  Went  out  West  with  the  tremen 
American  actress,  Miss  Pauline  De  Vernon,  pidevant  Jenkins.  "V 
to  Albany,  Chicago,  Buffalo,  and  lots  of  high  old  places.  De  Vern 
is  a great  card  for  circus  business — rolls  herself  up  in  the  Americ 
flag,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I believe  she  would  have  stood  on  h 
head,  if  it  hadn’t  been  against  the  law.  When  she  dies,  tumbles 
over  the  stage  ; sometimes  dies  five  or  six  times.  Immense  creatu 
but  she  didn’t  pay. 

Nut.  Why  1 didn’t  you  do  all  your  infallible  dodges  ? 

Froth.  Yes,  everything;  had  long  extracts  out  of  the  New  Y 
papers — advertising  columns — asked  all  the  country  editors  to  dri 
and  the  cleanest  of  them  to  dinner  ; illuminated  the  theatre  on  t 
benefit  night ; set  off  twenty  shillings  worth  of  rockets  ; got  up  a r 
mantic  story  about  her  early  history  and  trials  (she  ought  to  be  tri 
for  getting  people’s  money  on  false  pretences)  ; had  the  same  set 
diamonds,  (California  ones,  from  the  original  Jacobs),  presented  to  h 
in  seven  cities,  by  seven  different  public  spirited  citizens  ; serenaded 
six  amateur  brass’  bands  ; twelve  four  shilling  boquets  every  nigh 
two  complimentary  benefits,  tendered  by  the  Mayor  and  principal  no 
of  each  one  horse  town,  every  week — but  it  wasn’t  a go. 

Nut.  [ Laughing , r.]  No  1 why  not  1 .If  there’s  any  virtue  in  hu 
bug,  all  that  ought  to  succeed. 

Froth,  (l.)  There  is  virtue  in  humbug,  my  boy,  but  you  must  h 
something  to  work  on.  That  French  joker,  'who  made  fifteen  diffe 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


inds  of  soup  out  of  an  old  boot,  had  to  have  the  boot  to  do  it  with, 
Ve  ‘‘busted,’’  simply  because  the  Vernon,  nee  Jenkins,  though  a very 
neat  washerwoman,  hadn’t  the  slightest  talent  for  the  stage.  I couldn’t 
ake  the  soup,  because  I didn’t  have  the  boot. 

Nut.  So,  the  Napoleon  of  blowers  was  beaten,  for  once  ? 

Froth.  Yes.  Ten  years  ago  I could  have  succeeded,  boot  or  no 
oot,  but  Pauline  was  too  bad  for  this  enlightened  age.  One  night,  in  a 
peech  I had  written  for  her,  which  she  spoke  after  being  called  out  by 
wo  stage  carpenters,  sent  into  the  boxes  for  that  purpose — she  said  it 
as  the  proudest  “ ery  ” in  her  life.  I tell  you  what  it  is,  Nutgalls, 
star  business  is  about  played  out.  People  see  to  much  good  acting 
'lew  York  Stock  companies,  and  they  won’t  stand  it.  VVe  agents 
sometimes  fool  the  press — these  country  editors  are  so  good  natured 
but  the  vox  populi  do  not  rush  in  large  masses,  and  insist  upon 
hucking  their  half  dollars  into  the  treasurer’s  paw.  Pve  done  with  it. 
Nut.  Done  with  it  ? Why,  I thought  it  paid  splendidly. 

Froth.  No,  not  now.  Some  of  the  musical  agents  make  a good  bit 
f money,  by  swindling  people  on  books  of  the  opera,  and  games  of  that 
ort,  but  it  isn’t.much  better  than  stealing.  But  you  sent  forme. 

Nut.  Yes.  I’ve  got  a singular  proposition  to  make  to  you.  I want 
ou  to  do  a good  action  from  disinterested  motives. 

Froth.  That  is  rather  a pastoral  idea.  However,  out  with  it. — Drive 
r cart. 

\t.  (r.)  Well,  it  is  about  our  little  friend,  Rose  Ten-per-cent  that 
— Madame  la  Gomtesse  de  Skibberini  that  is.  She’d  a great  deal 
be  a laundress,  than  a countess,  for  she  has  to  earn  her  own 
ing,  and  it  is  not  precisely  en  regie  for  a countess  to  do  that. 

Froth,  (l.)  Oh,  yes.  I remember.  Married  that  tenor  who  cut  out 
sweet,  pious  friend,  Crawl. 

Nut.  The  same.  And  the  same  sweet  Crawl  bullied  and  bought  off 
kibberini ; first  by  cutting  him  out  of  his  engagement  at  the  opera — 
econd,  by  offering  him  ten  thousand  dollars  of  old  Ten-per-cent’s 
oney  to  leave  the  country — third,  by  persuading  him  that  he  was  liable 
criminal  prosecution  for  abducting  the  girl.  They  played  the  old 
me  on  him — rung  in  a broken  down  policeman  to  bully  the  tenor,  who 
mediately  left  the  country. 

Froth.  That’s  a nice  business. — But  what  did  they  expect  to  gain 
it? 

Nut.,  They  expected  that  Rose  would  not  find  out  the  trick,  and  that 
he  would,  after  a time,  consent  to  a divorce,  in  some  other  state — 
"onnecticut  for  instance  : where  a lady.  can  get  rid  of  her  husband  by 
ct  of  the  legislature,  for  about  ten  dollars,  and  for  next  to  no  cause  at 
11 — but  Wash,  run  across  the  policeman  in  some  of  his  nice  haunts, 
nd  found  out  the  whole  affair. 

Froth.  Then  there  must  have  been  a nice  row. 

Nut.  You’d  better  believe  so.  It  ended  by  the  decamping  of  Rose 
om  the  Chateau  de  Ten-per-cent,  baggage,  poodle,  bijouterie  and  all. 
7ash  stuck  to  her  like  a brick,  and  so  did  that  queer  little,  geological 
usin  of  theirs,  from  Boston  ; they  are  all  living  together,  across  town, 
d — well — you  must  see  for  yourself.  It  is  a great  party. 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


25 


Froth.  I should  think  so.  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do? 

Nut.  Well,  you  know  that  Rose  has  got  a splendid  voice,  and  has  the 
far  best  musical  education.  I’ve  heard  her  sing  quite  as  well  as  any  of 
the  Italians,  and  if  we  must  have  opera  music,  which  I consider  an 
immense  humbug,  why  shouldn’t  we  have  it,  like  the  pies  in  the  cheap 
eating  houses,  home  made  ? 

Froth.  Ah  ! I see.  You  think  there’s  a splendid  chance  for  Madame 
la  Comtesse  to  give  a concert,  and  make  some  loose  change.  Yes — 
romance — Fifth  Avenue — love  match — unfortunate — it  wilt  do.  I’ll  go 
in  with  all  my  heart,  I won't  charge  her  a cent,  and  I won’t,  steal  a 
penny  of  the  receipts. 

Nut.  Bravo  ! what  splendid  magnaminity. 

Froth.  You’d  think  so,  if  you  know  as  much  about  musical  agents 
as  I do.  But  let  us  go  and  see  her. 

Nut.  That’s  a brilliant  idea.  I’ll  be  with  you  in  a moment.  [ Speak- 
ing off  e.]  Mr.  Jones — I am  going  out  and  will  not  be  back  till  this 
evening.  Be  good  enough  to  ask  Mr.  Smith  to  pitch  into  the  street 
inspector — Broadway  is  in  an  awful  condition.  Send  a reporter  up 
to  Dead  Eye  Creek,  to  see  about  that  railroad  accident — tell  him  he 
needn’t  spread  on  it  much,  as  there  were  only  twenty  ^emigrants  killed, 
and  these  things  are  so  frequent  as  to  be  common-place — ask  Mr. 
Jenkins  to  look  up  the  facts  about  that  shooting  affray  in  Cherry  street, 
last  night,  and  tell  him  to  ask,  in  his  article,  why  it  was  not  on  the  re- 
turn of  the  Captain  of  Police — and  if  the  scoundrel  is  to  go  unpunished, 
because  he  is  a small  potato  politician  ? — look  over  those  Kansas  letters 
carefully,  they  are  lying  awfully  on  both  sides,  out  there,  now — tell 
Brown  not  to  forget  the  new  play  at  Laura  Keene’s  to-night,  and  not  to 
be  any  more  meat-axy  than  is  actually  necessary,  the  author  is  one  of 
us, — tell  old  Beeswax  to  write  up  Governor  Popkins’  obituary — he’s  got 
paralysis  very  bad,  and  may  pop  off  at  any  moment,  and  if  that  woman 
comes  in  that  wants  to  advertise  her  child  lost,  for  nothing,  tell  her,  we 
don’t  indulge  in  luxuries  of  that  kind  ; but  give  her  five  dollars,  and  a 
notice  under  the  city  news  head — and  if  that  old  snuffy  book-puffer,  and 
retailer  of  other  men’s  antique  jokes,  comes  in,  tell  him  that  if  he  wiil 
do  me  the  honor  to  call  on  me  to-morrow  morning,  I will  do  myself  the 
honor  of  kicking  him  down  stairs — and — and  I think  that  ’ll  do.  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Jones.  Now  we’ll  go  forth  upon  our  mission. 

Froth.  Allons  ! let  us  on  to  victory.  [Exeunt  l.  h. 

Change  of  scene. 

Scene  II. — Interior  of  Apartments  in  a tenant  house.  Scene  should  be 
closed  in  with  doors  in  Flat,  r.,  and.  l.,  Practicable  fireplace  r.,  neat , 
but  cheap  Furniture.  Boquet  on  table  where  Rose  is  seated  at  a sew- 
ing machine , c.,  Wash  at  another  table  writing,  l.,  Cerulia  at  fire- 
place, surrounded  by  cooking  utensils.  A Canary  Bird  in  cage,  table  c., 
Sewing  Machine,  r.  c. 

Rose.  [Gaily,  c.]  I say,  Wash,  this  isn’t  the  Fifth  Avenue,  exactly, 
but  it’s  very  nice,  isn’t  it? 

Wash,  (l.)  Yes,  splendid,  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  all  my 
life.  How  are  you  getting  on,  Rule? 


26 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Cerulia.  [Readiny  from  book .]  Split  him  down  the  back,  broil  him 
over  a hot  fire,  serve  with  butter. 

Rose.  [ Laughing .]  Still  abstracted,  Rule  ! 

Cerulia.  If  I wasn’t  abstracted,  I think  your  dinner  would  be.  You 
used  to  laugh  at  me  for  my  devotion  to  scientific  pursuits,  but  they  save 
us  a great  deal  of  money.  I didn’t  read  the  Chemistry  of  Common 
Life  for  nothing. 

Wash.  That’s  so  ! Your  beefsteaks  would  do  credit  to  the  artist  of 
the  Union  Club ; and  for  chicken  fixins,  Delmonico  himself  couldn’t 
beat  you.  Then  your  bills  are  not  quite  so  heavy  as  Ciro’s. 

Rose.  I really  don’t  know  what  we  should  do  without  you. 

[Crosses  and  shakes  hands  with  her. 

Cerulia.  Nonsense  ! [Wipes  her  eyes  with  apron. 

Wash.  Wouldn’t  it  be  queer  if  anybody  should  call  on  us?  What  a 
row  my  bootmaker  and  tailor  will  kick  up  with  the  old  man.  He  must 
pay  ’em,  though — nice  old  boy,  sorry  he  wouldn’t  listen  to  reason  ; but 
really,  he  was  so  outrageous,  that  I think  seriously  of  cutting  him  alto- 
gether. 

Rose.  [ Laughing .]  I am  afraid  you’re  a bad  boy  yet.  How  does  the 
story  come  on  ? 

Wash.  You  shall  hear.  You  know,  in  last  week’s  Smasher — circu- 
lation five  hundred  thousand,  and  a hundred  guns  for  every  extra  thou- 
sand— the  heroine,  Anastasia  Sophronia,  had  been  induced  by  an  ano- 
nymous letter,  to  meet  her  lover,  Charles  Henry  Augustus,  under  the 
umbrageous  shadow  of  an  ancestral  oak,  near  her  father’s  castle ; and 
the  story  left  off  when  she  was  putting  on  her  Goodyear’s  India  Rubber 
overshoes,  (I  expect  he’ll  give  me  a water-proof  overcoat  for  ringing  in 
his  name,)  the  night  being  rainy,  to  go  out.  She  repaired  to  the  fatal 
spot,  her  heart  beating  with  joy  at  the  near  prospect  of  meeting  Charles 
Henry  Augustus,  who,  fond  youth,  was  gaily  mingling  in  the  dissipa- 
tions of  a fashionable  watering  place,  (pitching  pennies  at  Hoboken.) 
little  thinking  of  the  fair  girl  who  ran  the  risk  of  bronchitis,  (might  have 
been  cured  by  Dose-’em-all’s  Pulmonic  Syrup — one  dollar  a bottle — six 
bottles  for  five  dollars,  sold  by  all  respectable  druggists) — get  five  for 
that  sure,  for  his  sake.  As  she  came  to  the  trysting-place,  her  eyes 
fell  not  upon  the  graceful  form  of  Charles  Henry  Augustus,  but  upon 
the  sombre  and  forbidding  countenance  of  Count  JerkemofF.  (that’s 
the  villain,  you  know,)  who,  enwrapped  in  a large  black  cloak,  which 
entirely  hid  his  face — 

Rose.  How  could  her  eyes  fall  upon  his  sombre  countenance,  then  • 

Cerulia.  Yes,  tell  us  that. 

Wash.  Listen — entirely  hid  his  face — save  when  it  was  momentarily 
blown  aside  by  the  fierce  gusts  of  wind  which  swept  down  the  avenue. 

oZlia.\0hl  0h! 

Wash.  And  anon  gave  glimpses  of  the  harvest  moon.  He  seized  her 
in  his  arms.  She  screamed  “Augustus  !” — Ah!  false  one,  where  wast 
thou  thenl  Filling  the  flowing  bowl,  (drinking  a soda  cocktail  at  the 
Otto  Cottage,)  and  with  thy  gay  companions,  (two  policemen  in  plain 
clothes,)  disporting,  while  thy  beloved  mistress  w'as  in  peril  of  her  life, 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


27 


health,  and  lungs!  De  Jerkemoff,  with  a fiendish  yell,  cl'&sped  her 
in  his  arms,  she  drew  her  faithful  revolver,  (Colt’s  improved,  particu- 
larly recommended  to  members  of  Congress,)  and  put  four  barrels 
through  his  head. 

Rose.  Four  what  1 

Wash.  Ah!  bullets — yes,  put  four  bullets  through  his  head.  He 
staggered  for  a moment,  and  shrunk  back — 

Rose.  I should  think  so. 

Cerulia.  It  is  impossible  ! There  is  no  case  in  the  books  where  a 
vnan  was  not  instantly  killed  by  that  number  of  gunshot  wounds. 

Wash.  Never  mind — I’m  not  writing  a medical  work,  besides  that, 
revolvers  have  been  introduced  since  the  books  were  written.  He  stag- 
gered for  a moment,  and  shrunk  back,  but  immediately  recovered  him- 
self and  pursued  the  maiden.  Turning,  she  fired  the  other  two  balls 
straight  through  his  craven  heart ! 

Rose.  Good  gracious  ! 

Wash.  Pie  still  pursued  her!  She  was  light  and  agile.  Ah!  the 
old  oak.  She  swung  herself  quickly  into  its  branches.  On  came  De 
JerkemofT. 

Rose.  What,  with  all  his  bullets  1 

Wash.  Yes  ; she  ran  rapidly  from  branch  to  branch,  till  she  reached 
the  topmost  crown  of  the  noble  monarch  of  the  forest.  Still  the  villain 
pursued  her.  Making  use  of  the  highly  original  'remark : “ My  life  you 
may  have,  but  mine  honor  never,”  she  ran  to  the  end  of  the  limb,  and 
seizing  it  with  both  hands,  swung  herself  olT — and  so  remained,  sus- 
pended in  illimitable  space 

Rose.  Well,  what  then  1 

Wash.  To  be  continued  in  our  next. 

Cerulia.  Did  the  attraction  of  gravitation  overcome  the  attraction  of 
cohesion,  and  bring  her  suddenly  and  forcibly  to  the  earth,  according  to 
the  laws  of  natural  philosophy  1 

Wash.  Well,  the  readers  of  the  ‘ Smasher ’ will  have  to  wait  till 
next  week  to  find  that  out.  I havn’t  exactly  made  up  my  mind  what 
to  do  with  her.  As  to  the  laws  of  natural  philosophy,  they  have 
nothing  to  do  with  cheap  novels.  They  are  neither  natural  nor  philo- 
sophical. \Knock  at  Door  in  Flat , r. 

Rose.  Come  in. 

Enter  Froth  and  Nutgalls,  r.  h.  d.  f. 

Nut.  [l.  c.]  Your  servant,  ladies.  [ Shakes  hand  with  them  and  with 
Y/ash.]  Wash.,  old  boy,  how  are  you  ^ 

Wash,  [l.]  Gay,  sir  ; gay  as  a robin,  balancing  himself  on  the  edge 
of  a tulip. 

Rose.  Mr.  Nutgalls,  I am  heartily  glad  to  see  you.  Mr.  Froth,  its  a 
long  time  since  I had  the  pleasure  to  meet  you. 

Froth,  [r.]  Yes,  madam  ; but  I am  the  only  loser.  I have  been  re- 
galing myself  with  a view  of  one  of  our  Western  cities.  Great  monu- 
ments of  American  enterprise  and  go-ahead-ativeness  they  are  too. 
Ah  ! my  scientific  friend,  \To  Cerulia.]  as  hard  a student  as  ever,  I 
presume. 


28 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Cerulia . Yes.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Froth,  did  you  hear  anything  of 
some  new  geological  discoveries,  in  Indiana  ? 

Froth.  No.  I went  after  rocks,  however,  but  I didn’t  get  any. 

Wash.  [Aside.]  He  stole  that  out  of  the  “ Picayune.” 

Rose.  Gentlemen,  be  good  enough  to  be  seated.  I believe  there  are 
chairs  enough. 

[They  all  return  to  their  avocations,  as  before , Rose  and  Nutgalls,  c.. 
Froth  flirting  aside  with  Cerulia.  and  attempting  to  assist  her  in 
her  culinary  operations  ; Wash,  writing. 

Rose.  Well,  Mr.  Nutgalls,  how  do  you  like  our  quarters  ? 

Nut.  They  are  not  at  all  bad— in  fact,  they  are  much  more  comfort- 
able than  mine,  up  sixteen  flights  of  stairs  in  a fashionable  hotel,  with 
•no  attendance — and  four  skirmishes  per  diem  to  get  anything  to  eat. 
How  did  you  happen  to  find  them  1 

Rose.  Well,  we  tried  everything.  First,  we  had  lodgings  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly select  private  family,  with  all  the  modern  improvements. 

Wash.  References  exchanged, 

Nut.  And  a pious  family  1 

Rose.  Oh,  yes  ; the  prayers  were  much  better  than  the  dinners.  The 
table  service  was  great ; the  knives  and  forks  were  like  old  soldiers, 
who  had  served  in  several  campaigns,  under  different  generals,  and  had 
no  sympathy  with  each  other.  On  state  occasions,  there  were  stiff 
table  napkins,  about  big  enough  for  a baby’s  pocket  handkerchief.  As 
to  the  modern  improvements— --the  gas  was  always  cut  off  at  eleven 
o’clock,  about  the  only  time  Wash,  wanted  it,  and  altogether  we  had  to 
pay  a great  deal  for  being  made  miserably  uncomfortable.  Then  Wash, 
tried  advertising  again, 

Wash.  Yes  ; did  this  dodge.  [Reads.]  “ Wanted.— Board,  by  a 
respectable  young  man,  eighteen  years  of  age,  in  a strictly  private 
family,  the  female  portion  of  which  can  inculcate  and  instil  into  his 
mind  moral  principles  and  precepts.  Such  only  need  address  A.  E.  B. 
S.  X.  Y.  Z.,  Herald  Office,  within  three  days.” 

Nut.  [Laughing.]  That  certainly  ought  to  have  succeeded. 

Rose.  The  number  of  communications  that  we  received  from  strictly 
private  families  was  enormous,  inducing  us  to  believe  that  the  popula- 
tion of  New  York  was  divided  into  two  classes, — people  who  take 
boarders  and  people  who  board.  But  we  soon  found  that  there  was  no 
middle  ground  for  us.  We  were  out  of  society, — and  as  society  had 
generally  cut  us,  we  resolved  to  treat  society  with  the  most  profound 
contempt. 

Nut.  Bravo  ! The  fashionable  world  is  a queer  institution.  They 
have  brought  style  down  to  the  smallest  particulars  lately.  The  other 
day  I employed  an  artist  in  the  dog  line,  to  perform  a surgical  opera- 
tion on  a terrier,  when  he  gravely  informed  me  that  it  wasn’t  the  style 
to  cut  off  terriers’  tails,  now-a-days.  So  I complied  with  the  dictates 
of  fashion,  and  Joe’s  organ  of  recognition  remains  unmutilated. 

Wash.  So  wags  the  world. 

Rose.  So  we  concluded  to  set  up  an  establishment  of  our  own  ; and 
such  a time  we  had  in  finding  a place  to  lay  our  heads,  you  can’t  ima- 
gine. So,  after  all  sorts  of  adventures,  we  happened  to  hit  upon  this 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


29 


place,  which  was  built  by  some  benevolent  individual,  who  evidently  had 
our  case  in  his  eye. 

Nut.  More  likely  he  had  twelve  per  cent,  per  annum  in  his  eye. 

Bose.  We  have  a whole  floor — four  rooms,  with  everything  conve- 
nient ; and  nothing  annoys  us.  I havn’t  the  slightest  idea  who  our 
neighbors  are,  but  I believe  that  Wash,  has  struck  up  a flirtation  with  a 
French  blanchisseuse,  up  stairs. 

Wash.  Entirely  platonic,  your  honor.  The  young  woman  was  struck 
with  my  magnificent  ensemble. 

Rose.  Well,  we  are  very  comfortable,  and  each  is  happy,  in  the  seve- 
ral departments  of  labor.  We  have  a sort  of  “ light  of  other  days”  old 
lady,  who  does  the  heavy  work,  and  Rule  gets  us  up  the  most  magnifi- 
cent dinners  from  the  very  smallest  materials. 

Nut.  [ Pointing  to  sewing-rnaehine.']  But  what  do  you  do  with  that  1 

Rose.  That  is  a great  invention,  and  the  name  of  Singer,  it’s  inventor, 
is  a credit  to  his  country — fit  to  be  mentioned  with  Morse,  McCormick, 
Steers,  Hoe,  Hobbs,  and  other  Americans,  whose  victories  in  the  arts 
of  peace  are  quite  as  great  as  the  achievements  of  their  revolutionary 
sires.  It  is  a great  invention,  and  gains  us  ten  dollars  a week.  Wash, 
writes  for  the  Sunday  papers,  and  they  pay  him  very  well ; and  Rule 
foolishly  sticks  to  us,  though  she  has  a nice  house  in  Boston. 

Cerulia.  Oh ! there’s  no  particular  merit  in  that ; I like  it.  It’s  a 
new  development  of  one  of  my  theories.  Rose  has  been  assayed  in  the 
retort  of  adversity,  and  has  come  out  pure  gold.  I like  her  much  better 
than  in  Madison  Avenue. 

Rose.  [ Deeply  affected .]  I believe  I am  changed  for  the  better. 

Nut.  [ Aside  with  energy .]  Now,  if  I had  a daughter  like  that,  I’d  for- 
give her  for  anything.  (To  Rose.]  Have  all  your  old  friends  cut  you  l 

Rose.  Oh,  no.  Not  quite.  Human  nature  and  fashionable  society 
nre  neither  quite  so  bad  as  some,  who  don’t  know  anything  about  them, 
try  to  make  them  out.  No,  those  I love  best  still  adhere  to  me,  and  have 
offered  me  assistance. 

Wash.  Which  we  wouldn’t  accept — and  I must  say  that  the  fellows 
at  the  club  behaved  in  the  handsomest  manner  to  me. 

Nut.  That’s  pleasant.  [7b  Rose.]  You  ought  to  come  out  as  an  au- 
thoress. 

Rose.  No  ! I’ve  been  too  much  disgusted  with  the  namby-pamby 
female  literature  of  the  day.  With  an  occasional  exception,  our  author- 
esses either  write  silly  platitudes,  abolition  harangues,  or  disgusting 
personalities. 

Nut.  Too  true  ! They  are  immense  nuisances,  and  ought  to  be  sup- 
pressed by  act  of  Congress.  But  have  you  thought  further  on  the  sub- 
ject I mentioned  the  other  day  1 

Rose.  Oh,  yes.  I go  every  day  to  my  old  music  master,  who  is  very 
kind  ; but  I’m  almost  afraid — I fear  a failure. 

Nut.  Oh,  don’t  be  alarmed.  The  public  is  generous  enough — too 
generous  at  times.  No,  you  mustn’t  be  afraid.  We  must  give  the  con- 
cert ; appeal  directly  to  the  public.  Who  ever  knew  our  people  to  re- 
fuse to  support  beauty  and  genius  in  distress  1 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


30 

Rose.  I do  not  fear  the  public.  But,  then,  the  press — won't  they  cut 
me  up  awfully  1 

Froth.  [ Coming  down.']  Oh,  bless  your  heart,  no.  They  are  the  nicest 
people  in  the  world  and  the  most  gallant. 

Nut.  [Laughing.]  Froth  is  good  authority.  He  manages  the  press. 

Froth.  Now,  old  fellow,  let  me  up,  please.  I tell  that  to  some  of 
these  foreigners,  sometimes,  but  every  sensible  man  knows  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  managing  the  New  York  press — that  is,  the  important 
papers.  What  they  do  they  do  freely  ; but  as  to  buying  or  bullying 
them,  it  is  out  of  the  question.  There  are  some  dirty  fellows,  who 
hang  about  Nassau  and  Spruce  streets, — have  no  real  connection  with 
any  paper — but  get  a job  for  charity  sometimes,  as  one  would  throw  a 
bone  to  a vagabond  dog — who  bully  artists  and  others  out  of  small 
sums,  and  thereby  sometimes  bring  an  honorable  profession  into  disre- 
pute, but  your  true  journalist  feels  for  them  only  the  bitterest  con- 
tempt. 

Nut.  Still,  we  are  a tender-hearted  race,  particularly  to  petticoats — 
and  I can  safely  promise  you  the  aid  of  the  press.  I have  brought  Mr. 
Froth  here  as  your  agent.  Everybody  must  have  an  agent,  you  know. 
And  I have  engaged  the  Academy  for  to-morrow  night.  Through  the 
quarrel  between  Max  and  the  Directors,  I have  it  for  a small  price,  and 
[Showing  poster ,]  here’s  the  bill. 

ACADEMY  OF  MUSIC. 

GRAND  LYRIC  CONCERT. 

MADAME  ROSE  DE  SKIBBERINI, 

ASSISTED  BY  SEVERAL  EMINENT  ARTISTS, 

Will  have  the  honor  to  make  her  first  appearance  in  a Grand  Lyric 
Concert,  at  the  Academy  of  Music, 

On  Wednesday  Evening  next. 

Tickets,  with  reserved  seats,  one  dollar  each.  To  be  had  at  Hall 

& Sons — Breusing’s — and  the  Academy.  No  reserved  seats  sold 

after  five  o’clock  on  the  evening  of  the  Concert.  Particulars  in  future 

advertisement. 

Rose.  Good  gracious.  Wash  ! Rule!  come  here,  and  see  how  my 
name  looks  in  large  letters ; I’m  afraid,  however,  that  it  will  be  a 
failure. 

Nut.  Courage,  ma  petite ! Froth  will  do  everything  that  is  right. 

Froth.  Yes,  we  must  have  a good  lot  of  bouquets  and  a house  full  of 
people.  I’ll  send  a squad  in,  the  same  clique  that  they  have  for  all  the 
new  artists,  with  stout  canes  and  strong  umbrellas.  Are  you  particular 
about  how  many  times  you  are  called  out? 

Rose.  Why,  it  is  made  a matter  of  business.  I’d  rather  not  have  any 
clique. 

Froth.  Oh,  you  must,  they  always  do  it.  The  fashionable  people 
never  applaud,  and  applause  is  positively  necessary  to  a singer. 

Rose.  [Stoutly.]  No  ; I won’t  have  anything  of  the  kind.  If  the 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK.  31 

public  applaud  me,  well  and  good — if  not,  I’ll  come  back  to  my  sewing- 
machine. 

Froth,  (r.)  Well,  just  as  you  please,  but  I must  go  now — I’m  going 
to  see  your  papa  ; have  you  any  message  to  the  governor  \ 

Rose.  [ With  feeling  ] No,  thank  you,  but  I often  think  of  all  his 
former  kindness,  and  regret  that  he  was  led  away  by  that  odious  Crawl. 

Froth.  There  are  some  queer  rumors  in  the  street  about  him  ; how- 
ever, I’ll  tell  you  more  about  that,  by  and  bye. 

Wash.  [To  Froth.]  I’ll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you  ; I’m  going 
down  to  the  Smasher  office,  to  have  my  matter  measured  with  a string, 
and  receive  my  little  dimes. 

[ Wash  changes  his  coat,  he  and  Froth  come  down. 

Rose.  Going,  Mr.  Froth  1 Let  me  see  you  again  soon.  And,  Wash, 
be  sure  you’re  back  at  five — Rule  has  got  a splendid  piece  of  roast  beet 
for  dinner. 

Wash.  [Crosses  to  L.j  Don’t  be  alarmed,  I'll  be  in  for  that,  I have  an 
appetite  now-a-days.  Froth,  labor  has  its  advantages — [Grosses  to  r.J 
you  ought  to  try  it. 

Froth.  Maybe  I will,  some  day,  just  for  a change.  Au  revoir,  ladies. 

[Exit,  with  Wash,  r.  h.  d.  c. 

Rose.  [To  Nutgalls.]  Will  you  remain  and  try  the  beef  1 I have  a 
great  many  things  to  say  to  you ! 

Nut.  (l.)  And  as  I don’t  drop  in  upon  a thing  like  this,  every  day,  I 
accept  your  invitation  with  pleasure. 

Rose.  Now,  Rule,  do  your  best — get  up  a feast  for  the  gods. 


Scene  III.  (r.  h.) — Room  in  Ten-per-cent's  house. 

Enter  Ten-per-cent,  hurriedly,  reading  a newspaper. 

Ten-per-cent.  Going  to  have  a concert,  is  she  1 Well,  I never  will 
forgive  her,  now.  What  an  eternal  disgrace — my  daughter  singing 
* before  every  low  fellow  that  can  raise  a dollar.  I wonder  what  Mrs.  T. 
will  say  to  all  this!  I miss  Wash,  and  Rose  very  much,  and  would 
gladly  have  forgiven  everything,  but  this  is  too  much.  [Savagely.'] 
They’ll  come  to  me  on  their  knees,  one  of  these  days,  and  ask  pardon, 
and  then  I’ll  turn  them  out  of  the  house.  [Softly.]  No,  I don’t  know 
that  I’d  do  that,  either.  What  an  old  fool  I am,  to  be  sure.  Not  a 
soul  to  speak  to  in  the  house  ; dinner  all  alone.  I wish  somebody 
would  come  in,  if  it  was  only  Froth.  Jane  1 Jane  ! 

Enter  Servant. — (Jane). 

Ten-per-cent.  Jane — have  the  evening  papers  come  1 

Jane.  Yes,  sir ; here’s  the  Mirror. 

[Giving  him  a newspaper. — Exit  Jane. 

Ten-per-cent.  £‘  More  Schuylerisms  ! Wall  Street  was  thrown  into 
a fever  of  excitement  this  morning  by  rumors  of  heavy  frauds  in  some  of 
the  Western  railroad  stocks.  It  seems  that  a financier,  named  C— , 


32 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


distinguished  for  his  piety,  has  been  carrying  on,  for  years,  a tremen 
dous  amount  of  speculating  in  fancy  stocks,  and  was  employed  as 
secretary  for  the  Jacksonville  and  Dead  Eye  Creek  Railroad,  which 
stock  he  bulled  up  to  135.  He  then  issued  a large  number  of  fraudu- 
lent shares.”  Good  heaven  ! that’s  where  nearly  all  my  whole  fortune 
is  invested  ; but  being  bitten  in  some  other  speculations,  he  was  not 
able  to  meet  the  second.  The  stock  fell  to  40  at  the  first  board,  and 
at  the  second,  was  offered  at  25,  with  no  takers.  Ruined  ! ruined  ! It 
is  also  rumored  that  this  scoundrel  has  forged  notes-of-hand  to  a very 
large  amount ; and  it  is  stated  that  he  sailed  to-day  in  the  Hermann, 
for  Bremen. 

[Stage  grows  dark — Ten-per-cent  sinks  upon  a chair , covering  his 
face  with  his  hand. 

Ten-per-cent.  And  this  is  the  end  That  smooth-faced  hypocritical 
villain  has  robbed  me  of  the  affection  of  my  children,  and  of  the  wealth 
I toiled  so  long  to  obtain  He  will  escape,  too,  through  the  negligence 
of  our  law  makers,  who  imprison  a man  a year  for  stealing  a loaf  of 
bread,  but  allows  a rascal  who  defrauds  me  of  half  a million  of  dollars 
to  go  unpunished,  and  live  in  luxury  on  the  fruits  of  his  crime  ! Oh  1 
if  I only  had  some  one  to  speak  to.  My  wife — she’s  a bad  consoler, 
but  better  than  none.  [Calls.]  Jane  ! Jane  ! 

Enter  Jane. 

Where’s  your  mistress  1 

Jane.  Been  out.  sir,  since  morning.  [Hands  him  note  and  exits. 

Ten-per-cent.  Of  course,  she’s  out. 

Enter  Froth,  r. 

Froth.  Good  morning,  sir.  I have  the  official  vote  for  Congress,  in 
your  district.  Blowhard  has  beaten  you,  one  hundred  votes.  Sorry,  but 
couldn’t  help  it. 

Ten-per-cent.  This  was  only  needed  to  cap  the  climax  of  my  misfor- 
tunes. Froth,  I am  the  most  miserable  of  men.  [ Goes  to  Froth,  places 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder , and  looks  in  his  face.]  Where  are  my  children 
— my  wife — Crawl — 

Enter  Mrs.  Ten-per-cent. 

Ten-per-cent.  [ Sarcastically ,]  Madam,  I am  glad  to  see  you,  and  sur- 
prised too  ; you  should  have  gone  with  your  dear  friend,  my  friend  Mr. 
Crawl. 

Mrs.  Ten.  I have  heard  something  in  the  street,  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter. 

Froth.  Simply,  that  Mr.  Crawl  has  Schuylerized  with  nearly  all  of 
your  husband’s  means. 

Ten-per-cent..  And  has  escaped,  the  villain. 

Mrs.  Ten.  And  is  it  all  sure  ? 

Ten-per-cent.  I cannot  tell.  At  any  rate,  it  will  be  a serious  inroad 
upon  my  fortune,  and 

Mrs.  Ten.  And  we  must  economise  till  we  know  the  worst,  and  trim 
our  sails  to  suit  the  gale.  Count  upon  my  aid,  my  husband.  I am  to 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


33 


some  extent  the  cause  of  your  misfortunes,  I will  do  my  duties  as  a true 
wife  to  alleviate  them. 

Ten-per-cent  Thank  Heaven  ! This  is  the  only  really  happy  moment 
I’ve  had  since  Rose  left  us.  I have  lost  my  means,  but  I have  gained 
a wife.  [Exeunt  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ten-eer-cent. 

Froth.  She’s  an  immense  brick,  that  woman — splendid  things  these 
women  are  when  a fellow  is  in  a tight  place.  They  are  like  ivy,  the 
more  you’re  ruined,  the  more  they  cling  to  you.  Bravo  ! Mrs.  Ten-per- 
cent, you’re  an  ornament  to  your  species!  [Looks  at  watch.]  Five 
o’clock,  I’ll  go  and  feed,  and  thereafter  adorn  my  person,  look  up  my 
friends  with  the  stout  umbrellas,  and  then,  ho  ! for  the  Academy. 

[Exit  R.  H. 


Scene  Last. — Green  Room  of  the  Academy  of  Music — Door , right  en- 
trance to  the  Stage — Piano  covered  with  Music. 

Rose,  Nutgalls,  Wash,  Froth,  and  Cerulia  discovered. 

Nut.  (l.  c.)  Well,  Rose,  there’s  a splendid  house. 

Froth,  (r.)  Nearly  all  money,  too. 

Wash,  (l.)  And  lots  of  our  old  fellows  there — it’s  very  fashionable. 

Cerulia.  There  seems  to  be  an  upper  stratum  of  democracy  in  the 
amphitheatre. 

Rose,  (c  ) I hope  they  are  not  Mr.  Froth’s  friends  with  the  stout 
umbrellas.  Oh,  dear  ! I feel  very  much  frightened. 

Nut.  Keep  up  your  courage,  you  needn’t  be  afraid.  They  are  so 
good  natured  that  they  are  applauding  the  baritone,  who  can’t  sing  a 
bit,  and  has  no  voice  worth  mentioning. 

Rose.  Oh  ! I’m  not  so  much  afraid  of  the  people  as  I am  of  the  critics. 

Froth , Why,  my  dear,  you  needn’t  be  afraid  of  them.  They  are  the 
best  fellows  in  the  world. 

Nut.  Yes,  indeed,  they’ll  treat  you  handsomely. 

Rose.  Yes,  but  then  I’m  not  a great  aTtist,  and — and — 

Nut.  Oh!  that’s  nothing,  they  will  be  kind.  For  my  part,  I would 
have  every  critic  sworn  as  they  do  grand  jurors.  You  shall  pitch  into 
no  one  for  malice,  hatred  or  revenge,  and  leave  no  one  unpitched  into 
for  fear,  favor,  affection,  or  hope  of  reward  But  still  they  are  only 
men,  and  men  always  mollify  at  the  sight  of  a petticoat  in  distress. 
Vide  the  stage  sailors. 

Froth.  [To  Rose.]  Sky-hi-hi  has  finished  the  violin  solo.  I thought 
he  never  would  get  through — any  one  that  plays  the  Carnival  de  Yenise 
ought  to  have  six  years  in  Sing  Sing,  and — it’s  time  for  you  to  go  on. 

Rose.  Well,  I’m  all  ready.  Oh,  dear  ! I feel  as  if  I was  in  a 
shower-bath,  and  going  to  pull  the  string. 

Nut.  Well,  pull  the  string  then — there — run  ! [Pushes  Rose  on 
Stage. — Great  applause  is  heard  ; they  all  crowd  to  wing. — Another 
round  of  applause. — Music.]  There  ! do  you  hear  that  l 

[More  applause. 

Froth.  [ Applauding .]  Yes'  that’s  a splendid  reception.  Bravo! 
little  one 


34 


YOUNG  NEW  YCRK. 


Enter  Ten-per-cent,  cautiously. 

But.  who  have  we  here  1 

Cornelia.  [ Looking  at  Ten-per-cent.]  It’s  a fossil.  Queer  place  for 
one,  too. 

Nut.  Not  by  any  means — the  directors  are  all  fossils.  [ Going  to 
Ten-per-cent.]  Good  evening,  sir  ; I did  not  really  expect  to  see  you 
here. 

Ten-per-cent.  [. sadly .]  It’s  as  astonishing  to  me  as  to  you, — but  I 
have  been  overtaken  by  sudden  misfortunes  and  I am  not  the  man  you 
knew  yesterday.  [ More  applause , during  which 

Enter  Rose,  with  Bouquets,  r. 

Rose.  Oh ! such  a splendid  reception — such  nice  people — applauded 
everything  1 did,  good  and  bad.  [sees  her  Father .]  My  dear  father  ! 
[Runs  to  him,  and  throws  herself  in  his  arms.']  I’ve  heard  everything. 

Ten-per-cent,  [r  ] My  dear  child ! — we  are  now  all  alone  in  the 
world. 

Rose.  Not  alone,  father.  You  still  have  a wife  and  children,  who 
have  always  loved  you.  You  were  the  victim  of  a bold,  bad  man,  who 
had  no  heart.  I knew  it.  Women  cannot  be  deceived  in  such  mat- 
ters, when  their  hearts  are  not  involved.  But  you  will  come  to  us, 
dear  father,  now — will  you  now,  and  live  with  us  always  1 

Ten-per-cent.  Can  you  forgive  me  1 

Wash.  [Coming  down.]  Forgive  you  ! Why,  Governor,  I told  you  ■ 
a month  ago,  I bare  no  malice  against  you.  There,  [Shakes  hands  with 
Ten-per-cent.]  that’s  what  I offered  to  do  long  ago,  but  you  wouldn’t. 
Never  mind,  old  fellow,  it’s  all  right  now.  [Goes  up. 

Rose.  It  is  I that  should  ask  forgiveness  for  disobeying  a parent’s 
sacred  commands — but  I was  confident  that  I was  in  the  right  ; and 
now,  my  dear  father,  my  heart  is  so  full,  that  I lack  words  to  express 
myself.  [Embracing  him. 

Froth.  [To  Rose]  Come,  it  is  almost  time  for  the  “ Ah  ! don't 
mingle ,”  [To  Ten-per-cent.]  Excuse  me.  Sir,  the  public  claims  its 
Prima  Donna. 

Rose.  [Going  out , r.]  Good  bye,  Pa.  I’ll  return  soon. 

[Exit  to  Stage. — Loud  applause. 

Froth.  Bravo  ! that’s  splendid  ! Go  it,  Umbrellas  ! 

[All  applaud,  and  all  crowd  to  r. 

Enter  Skibberini,  r.,  going  l.  in  great  haste. 

Skib.  Where  is  she  ? Where’s  my  wife  1 The  victim  of  a foul  con- 
spiracy, I was  sent  out  of  the  country,  away  from  all  I loved — and  I 
have  not  since  known  one  happy  hour. 

Nut.  [Coming  down.]  Ah,  my  gentle  tenor, — so,  you  are  here, — you 
received  my  dispatch  1 

Skib.  Yes.  The  moment  I heard  of  my  wife’s  misfortunes,  I relin- 
quished all  my  engagements, — travelled  night  and  day, — and  here  I 
am. 

Wash.  [Coming  down.]  But  the  tin’s  all  gone,  old  fellow. 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


ob 


Skib.  Never  mind  ! I’m  glad  of  it.  It  gives  me  an  opportunity  to 
prove  that  I did  not  marry  her  for  money. 

Ten-per-cent.  [To  Skibberini.]  I have  a thousand  apologies  for  you, 
but  don’t  know  how  to  make  them.  [They  talk  aside. 

Froth.  By  Jove  ! that’s  a splendid  trill.  That  will  be  an  encore , no 
doubt.  [Loud  applause  within. 

Enter  Rose,  very  much  exhausted. 

Rose.  There,  that’s  over,  and  I’m  heartily  glad  of  it.  I’ve  nothing 
to  do  now.  till  the  end  of  the  second  part.  [Goes  to  piano,  and  sits. 

Wash.  Now,  sis,  you  are  all  right,  you  sang  like  a bird,  and  every 
body  is  in  extacies  with  you.  One  fellow  says  your  scale  is  splendid, 
and  I told  him  you  carried  extra  weight  on  purpose. 

Rose.  Thank  you.  Your  musical  criticism  is  quite  as  good  as  any. 

Froth.  It’s  a splendid  success. 

Nut.  ‘And  I suppose  there’s  nothing  else  in  the  world  you  want. 

Rose.  One  ! 

[Nutgalls  comes  down  bringing  Skib.  Nutgalls  takes  her  hand 
and  puts  it  into  that  of  Skib,  and  goes  up  softly.  Rose  turns  on 
piano  stool  and  sees  Skib. 

Rose.  My  dear  husband.  [Attempts  to  rise , but  falls  into  Skib's  arms. 

Skib.  Look  up,  dear  Rose.  We  never  will  part  again.  Before  I heard 
the  truth  in  relation  to  you,  I was  in  the  interior  of  Germany,  and 
under  an  engagement,  but  as  soon  as  I could  free  myself  from  it,  I did 
so,  and  have  travelled  night  and  day,  impatient  for  this  blissful  moment. 

Rose.  I never  doubted  your  truth.  It  was  my  belief  in  you,  that 
made  me  risk  all,  in  giving  to  you  my  maiden  heart ; it  was  my  belief 
in  you  which  has  since  supported  me  under  the  trials  that  have  fallen 
to  my  lot.  [They  go  up  Wash,  and  Cerulia  come  down. 

Wash.  Well,  Rule,  have  you  considered  my  proposition  with  your 
usual  profundity. 

Cerulia.  Yes.  I have  applied  a mental  analysis  of  it,  and — 

Wash.  Are  you  in  favor  of  a clinique  1 

Cerulia.  Well,  you’ve  been  a pretty  good  boy. — I think  your  primary 
formation  is  good — your  devotion  to  your  sister  shows  that,  and  they 
say  a good  brother  makes  a good  husband.  Still  matrimony,  viewed 
logically,  is  an  absurdity,  and — 

Wash.  [Kissing  her .]  There,  we’ll  hear  the  rest  of  that  some  other 
time. 

[Goes  up  'with  Cerulia.  Skib,  Rose,  Froth,  Nutgalls  and  Ten- 
Per-cent  come  down. 

Skib.  To  whom  do  we  owe  all  this  happiness  1 

Rose.  Chiefly  to  our  good  friend  Mr.  Nutgalls. 

Cerulia.  Oh  ! Mr.  Nutgalls,  you’re  an  angel. 

Nut.  Thank  you.  That’s  the  first  time  I was  ever  called  an  angel  in 
my  life. 

Froth.  The  simile  is  really  not  appropriate. 

Wash.  No,  he’s  not  quite  the  idea  for  a conventional  angel. 

Froth.  It’s  time  for  the  finale  to  Cinderella.  [/Sswgv. 

“ Now  with  grief  no  longer  bending.” 


36 


YOUNG  NEW  YORK. 


Hose.  [Goes  to  wing  ] All  ready. 

Nut.  [Goes  to  wing , and  leads  her  to  c.]  If  they  call  you  out.  what 
will  you  say  ? 

Rose.  You  shall  hear.  [Coming  down  to  lights ] Ladies  and  gentle- 
men— without  the  smallest  particle  of  egotism,  I ask  you  if  you  are  sat- 
isfied with  the  career  of  Young  New  York,  as  typified  by  us  1 Do  you 
approve  of  the  step  that  I have  taken,  in  coifiing  before  the  public,  and 
asking  for  the  support  it  always  generously  accords  to  talent,  in  every 
department  of  art  ? Will  you  sustain  me  ? Do  you  consider  my  debut 
a success  1 And  shall  I continue  my  artistic  career  1 Thank  you  !—- 
And  remember  this — that  it  is  only  the  test  of  adversity  that  brings  out 
the  latent  virtues  that  are  hidden  in  every  heart.  That  genius  is  the 
gift  of  Heaven,  bestowed  upon  no  single  class,  and  that  the  accomplish- 
ments and  refinements  called  frivolous  by  those  who  envy  their  pos- 
sessors, may  be  turned  to  the  best  account  in  the  hour  of  need.  That 
the  rich  are  not  to  be  censured  by  the  poor  for  being  rich,  nor  the  poor 
by  the  rich,  for  being  poor  ; but  that  every  man  and  woman  is  to  be 
tried  by  the  standard  of  their  acts  alone  ; and  upon  them  is  to  stand  or 
fall.  How  do  you  like  Young  New  York  1 [All  applaud. 

All.  Bravo  ! 

[Nutgalt.s  leads  Rose  to  wing , — Applause  — Quick  Curtain. — Orches- 
tra Music,  Finale  to  Cinderella. — End  of  piece. 

Position  of  Characters  at  the  fall  of  the  Curtain. 

Froth,  Ten-Per-Cent.,  Skib.,  R,ose,  Wash,,  Cerulia,  Nutgalls. 

THE  END. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 

L.  means  First  Entrance , Left.  R.  First  Entrance , Right.  S.  E.  L. 
Second  Entrance,  Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Right.  U.  E.  L, 
Upper  Entrance , Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance , Right.  0.  Centre. 
L.  C.  Left  of  Centre  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance, 
Left.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R 
Door  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Left.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door,  Left.  U.  D.  R 
Upper  Door . Right. 

***  The  Reader  is  supposed  to  he  on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience 


LADIES, 


DO  YOU  WANT  A PURE,  BLOOMING  COMPLEXION  1 

IF  SO,  A FEW  APPLICATIONS  OF 

HAGAN’S  BALM 

Will  gratify  you  to  your  heart’s  content.  It  causes  the  plainest 
features  to  soften  into  refinement,  and  glow  with  loveliness.  It 
makes  a lady  of  fifty  appear  but  twenty.  It  does  away  with 
Redness,  Blotches,  and  Pimples.  It  overcomes  the  Flushed  Ap- 
pearance of  heat,  fatigue,  and  excitement.  By  its  use  the 
roughest  skin  is  made  to  rival  the  Pure  Radiant  Texture  of 
Youthful  Beauty. 

Sold  by  all  Druggists  at  75  Cents  per  Bottle. 

LYON  MANUFACTURING  CO., 

53  Park  Place,  New  York 

Hagan’s  Magnolia  Balm  is  used  by  hundreds  of  Actresses. 
It  gives  a brilliant,  beautiful,  and  natural  complexion, 
which  no  other  preparation  can  rival.  It  is  impossible  to  detect 
its  use  when  properly  applied. 


ZLATOUST  7!3 


For  The  Hair 


Only  50  Cents  Per  Bottle. 


It  -promotes  the  growth,  preserves  the  color,  and  in- 
creases the  vigor  and  beauty  of  the  Hair.  • 


Woman’s  Glory  is  her  Hair.  A woman’s  beauty  is  at  once  her  weapon  and  her 
shield,  and  forms  the  silver  cord  with  which  she  binds  in  willing  captivity  the  proud 
and  haughty  spirit  of  man.  Of  all  the  elements  of  female  loveliness  a beautiful 
Head  of  Hair  is  the  feature,  par  excellence,  and  crowning  glory.  With  it  the 
plainest  face  becomes  attractive  ; without  it  the  sweetest  features  are  lost  in  gloom. 

As  a producer  and  preserver  of  this  important  item  of  womanly  attraction, 


is  a rare  and  wonderful  preparation,  and  after  thirty  years  of  trial  stands  to-day 
without  a RIVAL. 


Miss  V g,  of  32d  Street,  says  Lyon’s  Kathairon  has  proved  to  be  the  best 

preparation  for  the  Hair  which  she  has  ever  used.  It  keeps  the  Hair  sweet,  clean,  \ 
healthful,  and  abundant.  . . j 

Miss  R , of  Murray  Hill,  says  it  is  really  splendid  ; that  it  beautifies,  ! 

strengthens,  and  cleans  out  the  dandruff  at  once. 

Mrs.  C- , of  5th  Avenue,  says:  I have  used  the  Kathairon  upon  my  own 

and  children’s  Hair  for  over  four  years  in  preference  to  any  other  preparation  of  the  | 
kind,  and  never  find  the  least  trouble  in  always  keeping  the  Hair  in  perfect  order  ;•  at 
the  same  time  the  head  is  always  clean  and  moist,  and  Hair  glossy.  . 

LYON  MANUFACTURING  CO., 

53  Park  Place,  New  York. 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD  DRAMA. 

No.  CLXXXVI. 


VICTIMS: 


AN 


ORIGINAL  COMEDY,  IN  THREE  ACTS. 


B Y 

TOM  TAYLOR,  Esq., 

Author  of  “Still  Waters  Run  Deep,"  “ A Blighted  Being f “ A Trip  to  Ki& 
smgen,"  “ Diogenes  and  his  Lantern ,"  “ The  Philosopher's  Stone,"  “ The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield ,"  “ To  Parents  and  Guardians ,"  “ Our  Clerks," 

“ Little  Red  Riding-Hood ,"  <£c.,  <fec.  Atoc?  one  of  the  Authors  of 
“ Masks  and  Faces,"  “ Plot  and  Passion ,"  “ Slave  Life,"  “ 

Loves  and  a Life,"  “ The  King's  Rival,"  “ Helping  Hands f 
“ Prince  Dorus,"  Sc.,  Sc.,  Sc. 


TO  WHICH  ABE  ADDED, 

A Description  of  the  Costumes — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exito— 
Eelative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and  the  whole  of  the 
Stage  Business. 


New  York  1 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

34  WEST  22D  STREET 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  St. 
Strand,  London,  W.  C. 


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STAGE  DIRECTIONS  —Exits  and  Entrances  : R.  means  Eight ; L.  Left ; D.  F.  Door  in  Flat ; R.  D.  Right  Door  ; 
L.  D.  Left  Door:  S.  E Second  Hnt™w  IT  F*  Tinner  Entrance ; M.  D.  Middle  Door. — Relatite  Positions:  R.  means 
Right;  L.  Lejt ; V.  Centre;  a U fiigru  oj  Venire;  a..  V.JUeftof  Centre. 

*»*  The  Reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage , facing  the  Audience. 


VICTIMS. 

=**= 

ACT  I. 

SCENE. — Morning  room  at  the  Acacias , Mr.  Merry  weather's  Villa,  in 
the  Regent's  Park.  An  elegantly  furnished  room , opening  into  a com 
servatory.  Chairs , lounges , a table , r.  c.,  a couch , r.  .4  door , r.  c., 
communicating  with  Mrs.  Merry  weather' s boudoir  ; a door  communi- 
cating with  the  hall , 2 e.  L.  ; a door  communicating  with  Mr.  Merry- 
weather's  dressing-room , 2 e.  r.  Bell.  Books,  prints,  dtc.,  upon  the 
table — statuettes,  dSfC. 

Skimmer  discovered  arranging  the  books , dec.,  on  the  table,  brushing  the 
dust  from  the  statuettes  and  picture  frames , with  a feather  brush,  df-c 
He  pauses  from  time  to  time  in  his  work,  to  open  and  read  in  one  of 
the  books. 

Skim.  Poetry  ! I adores  poetry  ! especially  melancholy  poetry,  like  Mr. 
Fitzherbert’s.  Here’s  his  works.  [ Takes  up  and  opens  books.  ] What 
cutting  titles,  “ Withered  Leaves  ” — and  here’s  another,  “ Solitudes 
of  the  Soul” — and  his  last,  which  missus  has  just  been  a cryin’  into, 
“ Ruins  of  the  Heart.”  It’s  a great  advantage  to  know  the  author  of 
poems  like  these.  He  was  here  last  night  ; he’s  here  most  nights,  with 
the  other  liter’y  gents  as  use  the  house,  and  don’t  they  punish  the  wit- 
ties  neither.  I suppose  it’s  misery  gives  him  such  an  appetite.  [ Opens 
a volume .]  Beautiful ! here’s  language  ! [Reads. 

“ Around  the  board,  all  point  at  him, 

The  lonely,  unenjoying  man — 

They  wonder  why  his  eyes  are  dim, 

They  wonder  why  his  cheek  is  wan — ” 

Well,  now,  I thought  he  looked  uncommonly  jolly  last  night  over  hi. 
scolloped  oysters.  [Reads  again. 

“ Alas  ! the  banquet  tempts  not  me, 

I find  no  pleasure  in  the  bowl,” 

He  mopped  up  his  cold  without,  too,  pretty  tidy.  Suppose  I tried  a 
verse  myself.  [Recites. 

“ Lthink,  for  all  his  gloomy  language, 

Expressive  of  sich  mental  anguish, 

That  Mr.  F.  enjoyed  his  sandwich  ” 

But  his  rerses  is  very  heart-broken  ! 


4 


VICTIMS. 


Enter  Carfuffle,  d.  l.  2 e. 

Car.  (l.)  There  you  are,  James  Skimmer,  at  them  hooks  as  usual, 
instead  of  attending  to  your  work. 

Skim,  (r.)  Servants  has  minds,  Mr.  Carfuffle. 

Ctyr  Not  above  their  situations,  James  Skimmer.  When  I was  in 
livery,  I had  a mind  according.  Now  I’m  out  of  livery,  my  mind  is 
rose  with  my  position  ; and  so  may  yours,  James,  when  you're  out  of 
livery. 

Skim.  Ah  ! if  you  knew  how  I looks  forrard  to  that  day,  Mr.  Car- 
fuffle. 

Car.  It’s  natural  you  should,  James — it's  an  honorable  ambition. 
But  you’ll  never  do  it,  James,  if  you  keeps  idling  your  time  away  with 
books.  [ Taking  book  from  him.]  I’m  afraid,  James,  your  growing 
liter’y. 

Skim.  I’m  doing  my  best,  Mr.  Carfuffle. 

Car.  (Sits,  l.)  Beware,  James  Skimmers!  I’ve  knowed  a great 
deal  of  liter’y  people — I’ve  lived  in  liter’y  places  myself,  when  I was  in 
a humble  position — and  of  all  the  uncomfortable,  shabby,  out-at-elbows 
families  I’ve  ever  seen  or  ’eard  tell  of,  liter’y  families  is  the  most  so. 

Skim,  (r.)  But  ain’t  ours  a liter’y  family  ? 

Car.  On  the  female  side,  James  ; but  master’s  in  the  city,  and  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  It’s  like  one  of  thes^  books,  James  ; missus 
finds  the  print,  but  master  the  Rooshia  binding,  and  the  gilt  edges. 

Skim.  But  the  company  we  keeps  is  liter’y  ; you’ll  admit  that,  Mr. 
Carfuffle  1 

Car.  Yes  James  ; and  it’s  the  one  thing  makes  me  a leetle  ashamed 
of  the  place.  To  be  sure,  liter’y  people  ain’t  all  equally  contemptible. 
There’s  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  now,  he  has  something  of  the  gentleman  about 
him — 

Skim.  And  Mr.  Butterby,  too,  is  quite  the  gentleman  ; often  gives 
me  half  crowns,  and  sends  missus  flowers,  reg’lar.  Here’s  his  yester- 
day’s bouquet.  [ Bringing  down  a small  flower  vase  with  violets .]  Li- 
ter’y people  corresponds  by  bouquets.  Do  you  know  the  language  of 
flowers,  Mr.  Carfuffle  1 

Car.  No,  James. 

Skim.  I’ve  read  about  it.  Let’s  see— what’s  violets  1 

Car.  Two  pence  a bunch,  James. 

Skim.  Ah  ! you’ve  no  poetry  in  you,  Mr.  Carfuffle. 

Car.  I ’ope  not,  James. 

Skim.  You’re  as  bad  as  master.  Don’t  you  feel  for  mis?  is,  Mr. 
Carfuffle  I 

Car.  Why,  James  1 

Skim.  A bein’  of  sentiment  and  poetry,  like  her,  tied  to  a plain  man 
o’  business  like  master. 

Car.  Well,  he  is  plain,  James,  but  if  you  must  have  my  opinion,  I 
think  master’s  the  more  to  be  pitied  of  the  two. 

Skim.  Lor',  Mr.  Carfuffle! 

Car.  If  I ’ad  a wife,  James,  I know  I should  rather  she  loved,  ho- 
nored, and  obeyed  me  in  the  regular  way,  instead  of  giving  herself  airs 
with  a lot  of  liter’y  gents,  and  painters,  and  poets,  and  low  people  of 


VICTIMS. 


5 


that  kind,  who  lives  by  their  wits,  and  looking  no  more  to  me,  except 
in  regard  to  money,  than  if  I was  nobody  in  my  own  ’ouse. 

Merryweatlier.  [ Without , r.  d.]  James! 

Skim.  But  hush,  here’s  master.  [Exit  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 h 

Enter  Merryweather  from  his  dressing  room , r.  d.  2 e. 

Mer.  Eleven  o’clock,  and  no  breakfast — how’s  this  1 

Car.  Missis  particularly  ordered  the  breakfast  was  not  ta>  be  laid 
sooner,  as  the  noise  disturbed  her  ; now  she  sleeps  in  the  blue  room. 

Mer.  Oh,  very  well ; then  I’ll  have  breakfast  in  the  study  in  future. 

Car.  Missis  particularly  ordered  it  should  be  laid  here,  sir,  in  case 
she  wished  to  speak  to  you  afore  you  went  to  the  city.  [Exit,  l.  d. 

Enter  Skimmer  with  breakfast  tray , l.  d.  2 e. 

Mer.  Be  careful  and  make  no  noise,  James. 

Skim.  I ’ope,  sir,  you’ll  find  me  attentive  to  everythink  that  can 
spare  missis  any  annoyance. 

Mer.  That’s  right,  James. 

Enter  Satchell,  r.  d.  in  f.  down  r. 

How’s  your  mistress  this  morning,  Satchell’ 

Sat.  [Pertly.]  She’s  suffering  from  one  of  her  dreadful  headaches, 
sir. 

Mer.  Poor  dear  ! I suppose  I may  go  in,  and  say  how  sorry  I am, 
Satchell 

Sat.  Oh  1 dear  no,  sir,  missis  can’t  abear  being  disturbed  so  early. 

Mer.  It  was  very  inconsiderate  in  me  not  to  think  of  that. 

Sat.  Very,  sir,  when  poor  missis  is  such  an  invalid. 

Mer.  Yes  [sigAs],  she  used  to  enjoy  such  excellent  health  before  I 
married  her. 

Sat.  [Sighs.]  Ah!  sir,  ladies  often  changes  sadly  after  marriage. 

Mer.  So  they  do,  Satchell.  [SfyAs.]  But  pray  ask  your  mistress 
if  there’s  anything  I can  do  for  her  before  going  to  the  city. 

Sat.  Very  well,  sir.  [Exit,  r.  d.  f. 

Exit  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e.,  after  having  laid  the  table. 

Mer.  [Sighs.]  Ah ! this  is  not  the  sort  of  breakfast  I used  to  pro- 
mise myself  before  I married  Emily.  I’ve  made  a terrible  blunder,  I’m 
afraid,  and  so  has  Emily,  too.  Who  would  have  thought,  though, 
from  her  letters,  that  things  would  have  turned  out  in  this  way — un- 
affected, frank,  and  honest  as  they  were?  [Opens  his  desk,  which  stands 
on  small  writing-table,  l.  n.,  and  takes  out  letters.]  After  all,  I suppose 
mine  were  just  as  unlike  my  real  self.  I should  have  done  better  with 
Lucy  Aiken.  [Takes  out  letters,  tied  round  with  lock  of  hair.]  Here’s 
my  proposal  to  her,  with  the  lock  of  hair  I purchased  from  her  hair- 
dresser ! I was  a poor  clerk  then,  and  little  dreamt  of  succeeding  to 
old  Merryweather’s  name  and  business.  I wonder  what  has  become  of 
Lucy.  I don’t  think  she’d  have  considered  herself  a victim  if  she  had 
married  me.  [<S%As.]  Ah ! well,  it  can’t  be  helped  now  ; I must  make 
the  best  of  it 

[Replaces  letters  and  locks  desk,  leaving  key  in  leek.  A tremendous 
double  knock  heard. 


6 

Who  can  that  be  ? 


VICTIMS. 


Enter  Carfuffle,  d.  l.  c. 

Car.  Mr.  Rowley  ! [ Exit  Carfuffle,  L. 

Enter  Rowley,  l. 

Rowley.  Ahl  Merry  weather,  my  boy.  [Holding  out  his  hand. 

Mer.  [ Shaking  hands  with  him.']  .What,  Jack  Rowley  ! how  are  you? 

Row.  Said  I’d  drop  in  on  you  one  of  these  mornings,  and  here  I am, 
all  the  way  from  Primrose  Hill,  with  a two-mile-of-a-frosty-morning 
appetite.  [ Rubs  his  hands. 

Mer.  Delighted  to  see  you — you’ll  stay  breakfast  1 

Row.  Of  course  I will — it’s  what  I’ve  come  *for.  You  know  how  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  surprising  you  in  the  midst  of  your  matrimonial 
comforts.  Lucky  Jog ! [Merryweather  sighs.]  Not  like  us  poor 
bachelors,  with  the  teapot  for  a vis-a-vis,  but  a pretty  morning  face  in 
a pretty  morning  cap  to  sweeten  your  tea  with  her  smiles,  and  butter 
your  muffins  with  her  own  white  hands. 

Mer.  As  you  say,  it’s  a great  comfort — but  pray  be  a little  less 
boisterous — my  wife  sleeps  in  the  next  room. 

Row.  Sleeps ! you  don’t  mean  to  say  she’s  in  bed  at  this  time  in  the 
morning  l 

Mer.  Why,  the  fact  is,  Emily  is  rather  an  invalid,  and  generally 
breakfasts  in  her  own  room. 

Row.  The  deuce  ! that’s  a disappointment.  But  never  mind,  we 
must  do  as  well  as  we  can,  so  order  in  the  solids — chops,  cold  meat, 
eggs  ; you  used  to  be  famous  for  your  breakfasts,  you  know,  in  your 
days  of  single  blessedness. 

Mer.  Ah,  yes  ! how  jolly  it  was,  Rowley  ! 

Row.  I believe  you,  old  boy  ; but  pray  ring  for  the  eatables,  for  I’m 
as  hungry  as  an  omnibus  driver. 

[Merryweather  rings  hell  on  table,  r.  c. 

Mer.  I’m  not  sure  what  there  is,  but  of  course  there’s  something. 

Enter  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Oh  ! James,  ask  cook  to  send  us  up  something  hot— a grill,  or  anything 
in  that  way. 

Row.  And  muffins,  my  boy,  muffins,  if  you  value  my  peace  of  mind 
[James  is  going,  l.  d.]  And  I don’t  see  any  cream  ! 

Mer.  Muffins,  James — and  cream.  [Exit  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Row.  Well,  old  fellow — hang  it — you  don’t  look  as  lively  as  you  used 
to  do.  • 

Mer.  Lively  ! oh  ! I’m  livelier  than  ever — much  livelier.  [Sighs .] 
But  my  wife  doesn’t  relish  a riotous  display  of  animal  spirits — she’s  so 
intellectual. 

Row.  Humph  ! 

Re-enter  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Skim.  If  you  please,  cook  says  there’s  no  chops,  and  the  cream  was 
all  used  for  missus’s  white  soup,  and  there’s  no  muffins,  ’cause  missus 
can’t  abear  the  boy’s  bell  in  the  mornings,  and  there’s  no  cold  meat, 
’cos  Mr.  Hornblower,  and  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  and  Mr.  Butterby  cleared  out 
the  larder  last  night,  after  the  concert.  [Rowley  whistles. 


VICTIMS. 


t 


7 


Mer.  Friends  of  Emily’s — very  superior  people. 

Row.  And  devilish  good  appetites,  apparently. 

Mer.  Well,  this  is  unlucky.  [ With  a forced  gayety .]  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
odd  coincidence,  isn’t  it  ? that  you  should  have  dropped  in  to-day  of  all 
days  1 How  very  good  1 

How.  Well,  I don’t  see  the  joke. 

Mer.  You  must  put  up  with  rolls,  and  take  your  tea  without  cream 
It’s  capital  1 you  get  the  aroma  so  much  purer.  That  will  do,  Jaynes. 

Skim.  [Aside.]  ’Tother  don’t  seem  to  appreciate  the  ’roma. 

[Exit,  l.  d.  2 E. 

How.  Well,  if  this  is  married  happiness,  it’s  as  like  bachelor  misery 
as  anything  I ever  saw  in  my  life. 

Mer.  It’s  provoking,  I must  say — extremely  provoking.  The  fact  is, 
you  see,  Emily  is  a creature  of  too  much  mind  to  attend  to  housekeep 
ing : but  in  everything  else  she's  a treasure. 

Row.  Humph! 

Mer.  So  considerate — so  afraid  of  giving  trouble. 

Enter  Satchell,  r.  d.  f. 

Sat.  Please  sir,  missus  says,  if  you’re  going  to  the  city,  you’re  to 
mind  and  not  forget  the  music  at  Crash’s. 

Mer.  No,  no ! I’ll  remember. 

Sat.  And  to  match  these  wools  at  Crochet’s  [ Gives  wools],  and 
here’s  the  books  for  Hookham’s  [Gives  books],  and  the  bonnet  boxes 
for  Madame  Clochette’s  [Gives  them],  and  missus  says  you’re  to  be 
particular  in  not  sitting  on  ’em. 

Mer.  There — there,  that  will  do,  Satchell,  I’ll  be  careful. 

[Exit  Satchei.l,  l.  d.  2 e. 
She’s  so  attached  to  me,  you  see — can’t  bear  any  other  person  to 
attend  to  her  little  commissions. 

Row.  So  I see.  Gad  ! they  paint  the  Cupid  of  courtship  with  a 
quiver  on  his  back,  but  the  little  god  of  matrimony  should  be  repre- 
sented with  a porter’s  knot.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

[Pointing  to  Merry-.,  who  is  loaded  with  parcels. 

Mer.  Oh  ! you  may  laugh. 

Row.  I know  I may,  I’m  not  married. 

Mer.  Wedded  life  may  have  its  burthens. 

Row.  Pretty  heavy  ones,  evidently.  [ Pointing  to  parcels. 

Mer.  But  at  least  they  are  borne  in  company. 

Row.  Parcels  Delivery  Company,  I should  think. 

Mer.  And  then  it’s  enjoyments  ! 

Row.  Tea  without  cream,  and  a breakfast  table  without  muffins. 
No,  no,  I’m  not  to  be  humbugged  ! You’ve  made  a mistake.  Come, 
confess  ; it  will  relieve  you. 

Mer.  No,  no  ; I am  thankful  for  the  change  in  my  condition  [Putt 
parcels  on  sofa , r.J,  though  I will  own  to  you,  I do  sometimes  wish 
Emily  had  not  such  extremely  delicate  nerves,  or  that  mine  were  a litt' 
more  delicate,  for  then  we  should  understand  each  other  better. 

Row.  So  you  don’t  quite  understand  each  other  1 

Mer  How  should  we  1 She’s  all  genius  ; I’ve  not  a spark  of  it 


8 


VICTIMS. 


Row.  And  most  of  your  friends  have  just  as  little.  How  does  sh« 
get  on  with  them  1 

Mer.  Oh  ! you  don’t  suppose  she  sees  any  of  my  friends — common- 
place men  of  business  ? Oh,  no  ; her  friends  are  all  what’s  called 
“ remarkable  people,”  poets,  metaphysicians,  artists  ; the  house  is  over- 
run with  men  of  genius.  I do  all  I can  to  make  her  happy  ; but  some- 
how, I don’t  think  I’ve  hit  the  right  way,  as  yet. 

Row.  [Taking  his  hand.]  My  poor,  dear  old  fellow,  I saw  you  were 
out  of  spirits  ; but  I’d  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  this. 

Mer.  You  don’t  think  me  an  unkind  man,  Rowley? 

Row.  Unkind  ! your  heart’s  the  softest  place  about  you,  except  youi 
head. 

Mer.  I’m  not  the  person  to  thwart  and  bully  a woman,  am  1 1 In 
short,  you  wouldn’t  call  me  a brute,  would  you  ? 

Row.  You!  a brute! 

Mer.  Because  I sometimes  fancy  I must  be  something  of  the  kind. 
If  you  saw  poor  Emily’s  low  spirits,  the  way  she  sighs,  and  casts  her 
eyes  up  to  the  ceiling  every  now  and  then,  when  I’m  with  her,  the  style 
in  which  her  friends  speak  of  me ; in  fact,  between  ourselves,  I’m  afraid 
I’m  breaking  her  heart  without  in  the  least  intending  it. 

Row.  My  poor  old  boy.  I’ve  a shrewd  suspicion  she’s  breaking  yours 
with  her  infernal  airs  and  affectations. 

Mer.  She!  oh,  no!  It’s  my  fault,  I tell  you.  But  what  would  you 
do  in  my  place  ? 

Row.  Do  ? Why  first  and  foremost,  I’d  be  master  in  my  own  house. 

Mer.  Oh,  that  I am,  I flatter  myself. 

Row.  Not  a bit  of  it,  or  your  wife  wouldn’t  be  in  bed  at  this  time  of 
day,  her  d — d superior  friends  wouldn’t  be  clearing  out  yonr  larder,  you 
would  not  be  imagining  yourself  a brute,  and  your  old  city  chums 
wouldn’t  be  received  in  this  style,  when  they  dropped  in  to  breakfast. 

Mer.  Oh  ! if  I only  knew  the  way  to  her  heart,  Rowley  ! 

Row.  What ! she  doesn’t  love  you,  then  ? 

Mer.  She  tries,  I believe,  but  I’m  not  the  sort  of  man  to  win  the 
affections  of  a gifted  creature  like  her.  Oh  ! if  I was  only  an  editor 
like  Hornblower,  or  a poet  like  that  pale,  sentimental,  black-bearded 
Fitzherbert. 

Row.  Fitzherbert  ! what  Herbert  Fitzherbert  , The  fellow  that 
writes  in  ijhe  periodicals  ? 

Mer.  Yes  ! Do  you  know  his  writing  1 

Row.  Sorry  to  say  I do — across  a three-and-sixpenny  stamp.  [ Show - 
ing  two  bills.]  Here’s  a brace  of  his  dishonored  bills  for  eighty-six, 
six,  eight,  drawn  by  Joshua  Butterby,  and  accepted,  payable,  but  not 
paid  by  Herbert  Fitz  ditto. 

Mer.  It’s  extraordinary  how  these  men  of  genius  are  always  in 
difficulties. 

Row.  He’ll  be  in  a worse  difficulty  soon,  for  I have  ordered  my 
solicitor  to  proceed  to  extremities. 

Mer.  What,  arrest  him  ? No,  no,  Rowley,  you  must  n’t  do  that 
neither.  Suppose  you  endorsed  the  bills  to  me ! 

Row.  Overdue  as  they  aie,  and  with  notice  of  dishonor  '. 


VICTIMS. 


9 


Mer.  I know  it’s  unbusiness-like,  but  it’s  out  of  consideration  for 
Emily  ; she  has  such  a respect  for  him,  such  an  admiration  of  his 
poetry 

Row.  Humph ! you’d  better  let  me  shut  him  up.  Song-birds  pipe 
best  in  cages. 

Mer.  No,  no  ; Emily  would  break  her  heart  about  it,  and  I cannot 
bear  to  give  her  pain,  more  than  I can  help — that  is  ; so  give  me  the 
bills.  [Rowley  gives  them.\  We’ll  look  in  at  Praed’s  on  our  way  t< 
the  city.  By-the-way,  though,  I forgot,  you  have  had  no  breakfast. 

Row.  Nor  you  either  ; suppose  you  breakfast  with  me  at  the  Union, 
tn  passant. 

Mer.  A capital  idea  ! In  the  style  of  old  times,  Jack ; how  I shall 
enjoy  it ! 

Enter  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Row.  Of  course  we  can’t  do  things  like  you  married  men,  but  J 
promise  you  a regular  sample  of  bachelor  discomfort,  with  all  the 
luxuries  of  the  season,  muffins  included!  [ They  are  going,  when 
Rowley,  pointing  to  sofa,  <sat/s,]  Don’t  forget  your  commissions. 

[Merryweather  gets  parcels,  and  they  exeunt,  l.  d. 

Skim.  [ Taking  away  the  breakfast  things.']  That  Rowley’s  a coarse 
man  ; the  same  vulgar  stamp  as  master.  Absorbed  in  what  Mr.  Fitz- 
herbert  calls  the  sordid  pursuits  of  gain,  both  of ’em.  If  it  wasn’t  for 
the  liter’y  people  missus  brings  about  the  ’ouse  I’d  give  warning  to- 
morrow. But  the  conversation  in  our  soirees  is  really  a privilege  to  a 
young  man  that  aims  at  improvin’  his  mind  as  I do. 

[ Exit  with  tray,  l.  d.  2 e. 
Enter  Satchell,  l.  d.  2 e.,  showing  in  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  who  is  plainly 
dressed,  with  bonnet  and  vail. 

Sat.  You  can  sit  down  here,  young  woman,  while  I speak  to  missus 
about  the  work. 

Mrs.  F.  Thank  you [ Exit  Satchell,  d.  in  f.  r. 

Another  week’s  embroidery,  and  I shall  have  made  up  the  two  pounds 
for  those  bills  ; and  then  I shan’t  have  to  worry  dear  Herbert  for  the 
money  I hope  I’m  not  doing  wrong  in  trying  to  keep  out  of  debt,  and 
procure  for  him  the  little  comforts  he  requires  so  much,  though  he  does 
know  nothing  about  it.  Thanks  to  my  maiden  name,  which  I borrowed 
for  the  occasion,  there’s  no  chance  of  my  being  found  out.  I wish, 
though,  those  impertinent,  ill-bred  men  wouldn’t  follow  one  so  in  the 
street,  and  stare  under  one’s  bonnet.  They  see  I’m  poor,  and  unpro- 
tected ; it  seems  so  cowardly.  There  was  one  persecuted  me  all  the 
way  to  this  door — such  a fool,  too. 

Re-enter  Satchell,  with  a parcel,  d.  f.  r. 

Sat.  (r.)  Here  are  half-a-dozen  more  caps,  to  be  worked  in  the  same 
pattern  as  the  last,  at  three- and-sixpence  a-piece,  you  know. 

Mrs.  F.  (c.)  Thank  you. 

Sat.  Mind,  they  must  be  ready  against  next  Wednesday. 

Mrs.  F.  Next  Wednesday  1 I shall  have  to  sit  up  the  greater  part  of 
every  night  to  Snish  them. 


1* 


10 


VICTIMS, 


Sat.  That’s  no  business  of  ours. 

Mrs.  F.  No  ; but  please  the  last  are  not  paid  for,  I think — [Timidly,] 
and  if — if  Mrs.  Merryweather  could — 

Sat.  [ Pertly .]  Oh  ! you  want  the  money — I’ll  tell  Missus  ; of  course, 
it’s  always  the  way  when  one  employs  people  out  of  charity. 

[Exit,  u.  d.  p. 

Enter  Skimmer,  d.  t,.  2 e.,  showing  in  Butterby,  who  carries  in  hi* 
hand  a bouquet  wrapped  in  paper. 

Butter.  [Aside.]  There  she  is ! [To  Skimmer.]  Very  well,  I’ll 
wait;  he  said  he’d  be  here  at  twelve.  [Exit.  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

[In  a jaunty  manner .]  Well,  my  dear,  I said  we  should  certainly  be 
better  acquainted,  and  here  we  are,  you  see,  tete  a tete.  By  Jove,  now, 
don’t  “ turn,  oh  turn,  those  eyes  away” — I’m  harmless,  perfectly  harm- 
less. I only  want  another  peep  into  those  blue  depths — “ Lights  that 
do  mislead  the  morn.” 

Mrs.  F.  Pray,  cease  talking  such  nonsense,  sir. 

Butter.  It’s  not  nonsense — it’s  poetry — the  language  of  passion  ! 
(Mrs.  Fitzherbert  lowers  her  vail^]  Ha!  now  why  put  down  your 
vail?  It’s  no  use — it  only  adds  the  charm  of  mystery  to  your  other 
charms. 

Mrs.  F.  I’ll  call  the  servants,  if  you  go  on,  sir. 

Butter.  Oh  ! pooh,  stuff,  you  know  you  wont  do  anything  of  the  kind 
— my  importunities  are  flattering.  By  Jove,  I’m  struck  with  you,  I 
am,  by  Jove!  [Aside.]  Not  a word.  Hang  me  if  I don’t  tempt  her 
with  Fitz’s  bouquet,  which  I was  to  leave  for  Mrs.  Merryweather. 

[Takes  bouquet  from  paper. 

Mrs.  F.  Will  that  girl  never  come  back  ? 

Butter.  Look,  here  are  lovely  flowers — let  me  present  them  to  their 
sister — “ Sweets  to  the  sweet.” 

“ I offer  thee  a rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee — ’ 

Mrs.  F.  As  insulting  me,  sir  ! 

[ Crosses  to  l. — she  puts  away  the  flowers. 

Butter.  No,  no,  by  Jove,  don’t  be  so  cruelly  cold — so  impregnably 
adamantine. 

Enter  Satohell,  d.  r.  f. 

Sat.  Flirting  with  Mr.  B. — I thought  she  was  no  better  than  she 
should  be.  Here’s  the  money,  young  woman,  and  as  we’re  not  used 
to  being  dunned,  we  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  more  work  after 
those  caps  are  finished 

Mrs.  F.  Oh  ! say  I’m  very  sorry,  please.  I didn’t  mean — if  not  per 
fectly  convenient — 

Sat.  Convenient ! — well,  to  be  sure,  making  a convenience  of  us  ! 

[Exit,  with  a toss  of  her  head , D.  R.  F. 

Mrs.  F.  Ah  ! she  wouldn't  be  so  cruel ; if  she  knew  how  I want  the 
money  for  dear  baby  and  for  Herbert — [Going  l. 

Butter.  [Detaining  he]  Now,  don’t  go. 


VICTIMS.  1 1 

Mrs.  F.  Once  for  all,  sir,  I beg  you’ll  not  insult  me.  I am  not  un* 
protected — and  if  I should  be  forced  to  appeal  to  my  husband — 

Butter.  Husband  ! — pooh,  an  old  dodge.  Now,  I say — 

Mrs.  F.  Oh!  sir,  why  do  you  persecute  me  in  this  way? 

[She  breaks  away  and  exits,  l.  D.  2 E. 

Butter.  Gone ! — she  was  a vision  of  delight  ! — I’ll  follow  her.  A 
’delicious  figure— slight,  but  undulating — quite  Wordsworthian — 

“ A creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  creatures’  daily  food, 

as  Fitz  would  say.  Yes,  by  Jove,  a human  creature  must  have  his  dailj 
food  ; I’m  not  married  yet,  and  Miss  Crane  is  not  here.  But  I must 
lewe  Fitz’s  bouquet — [Rings] — or  he’ll  never  forgive  me. 

Enter  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Mind  Mrs.  Merryweather  has  this  bouquet,  Skimmer,  and  not  a word 
who  it  comes  from,  you  know. 

Skim.  Certainly  not,  sir.  [ Puts  it  in  a vase,  and  exits,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Butter.  [. Looking  out  of  the  window,  c.]  There  she  goes  out  of  the 
shrubbery.  Now,  Butterby,  be  yourself — be  irresistible,  Butterby,  my 
boy  ! [As  he  is  rushing  out  l.  d.  2 e.,  he  suddenly  starts  back.]  Miss 
Crane,  by  Jingo  ! 

Enter  Miss  Minerva  Crane,  shown  in  by  Skimmer,  e.  d.  2 e.  who  exits , 
l.  d.  2 c. 

Miss  C.  Joshua ! 

Butter.  Minerva  ! 

Miss  C.  One  moment,  Joshua,  and  this  feminine  weakness  will  have 
been  surmounted.  A chair,  Joshua  ! 

Butter.  Yes,  Minerva,  [He  places  one — both  sit. 

Miss  O.  (r.  c.)  I expected  to  find  my  gifted  friend  Emily,  and  the 
sight  of  you,  Joshua,  affected  me. 

Butter,  (l.  c.)  Exactly  the  effect  which  the  sudden  sight  of  you, 
Minerva,  had  on  me. 

Miss  C.  In  the  delicate  relation  in  which  we  are  placed — 

Butter.  Yes,  going  to  be  married  next  week— 

Miss  O.  [ Moving  her  chair  away.]  You  must  feel  the  impropriety  of 
our  remaining  together,  Joshua. 

Butter.  Well,  now,  Minerva,  considering  we’re  to  remain  together 
for  our  natural  lives,  after  next  week,  I should  have  thought  it  the  most 
proper  thing  in  the  world. 

Miss  C.  With  ordinary  women  it  might  be,  Joshua — but,  you  know, 
I am  not  an  ordinary  woman. 

Butter.  That  you  certainly  are  not,  Minerva  1 Both  mentally  and 
physically  you  are  a phenomenon. 

Miss  Q.  [Waving  her  hand]  I am  aware  Joshua  appreciates  his 
Minerva— that  he  admires  in  her,  not  the  external  graces,  but  the 
mental  gifts  ; the  devotion  with  which  she  has  embraced  her  great  idea, 
the  spirit  in  which  she  has  entered  on  the  noble  cause  of  Female 
Emancipation  ! Is  it  not  so,  my  Joshua  1 


12 


VICTIMS. 


Butter.  [Aside.]  By  Jove ! how  she  talks.  [Aloud  ] It  is  exactly 
bo,  my  Minerva ! 

Miss  C.  Then,  let  us  have  no  unworthy  weakness,  Joshua.  If  I 
marry,  do  you  think  it  is  for  that  vulgar  happiness  usually  sought  in 
such  unions  1 

Butter.  Eh  ? well,  I certainly  had  that  impression. 

Miss  C.  Dismiss  it ! I take  the  chain  of  matrimony  that  I may  be 
more  free. 

Butter.  [Aside.]  A nice  look-out  for  me  ! 

Miss  C.  More  untrammelled  in  my  missionary  labors.  In  you  I 
have  found  a mind  that  can  rise  to  the  height  of  my  idea.  Your  de- 
votion to  our  mutual  friend,  the  gifted  Fitzherbert — your  sympathy 
with  this  suffering  angel,  Mrs.  Merryweaiher — first  taught  me  that, 
under  that  exterior — 

Butter.  Minerva ! 

Miss  C.  However,  at  first  sight,  unprepossessing  and  even  vulgar — 

Butter.  Hang  it ! Minerva  ! 

Miss  C.  Was  enshrined  a great  soul — a heroic  nature! 

Butter.  Yes,  certainly,  Minerva.  Still  my  appearance — 

Miss  C.  Might  have  repelled  most  of  my  sex.  But,  as  I said  belore, 
I am  not  an  ordinary  woman. 

Butter.  No — but,  you  know,  one  doesn’t  like  to  be  made  out  such  an 
ordinary  man,  neither. 

Miss  O.  [ With  a smile  of  superiority.]  I had  supposed  you  above 
such  weaknesses,  Joshua.  Do  not  let  me  have  reason  to  suspect  that 
I have  misconstrued  you.  [d.  r.  in  f.  opens — Miss  Crane  waves  her 
hand  with  dignity.]  But  enough — here  comes  our  suffering  friend — I 
would  not  she  found  us  together.  Retire,  Joshua,  to  the  garden. 

Butter.  [Aside.]  Confound  it ! Minerva  is  certainly  a wonderful 
creature  ! — wonderful  ! — but  she  might  have  a little  regard  for  one's 
feelings  ! I wonder  how  she’d  like  to  be  spoken  to  in  this  way  herself. 
However,  I shall  be  master  next  week,  and,  by  Jove  ! I’ll  let  Minerva 
see  what’s  what  then.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merryweather,  r.  d.  f.,  leaning  on  Satchell’s  arm— 
Satchell  wheels  forward  an  easy  chair. 

Miss  G.  My  dear  Emily  ! 

Mrs.  M.  Good  morning,  dear  ! Thank  you — that  will  do,  Satchell 
[SAe  sits — Satchell  retires , r.  d.  f.,  after  getting  footstool , arrang 
ing  smelling  bottle  , shawls , cf-c. 

Miss  G.  And  how  is  my  poor  sufferer  this  morning? 

Mrs.  M.  No  worse  than  usual,  dear  Miss  Crane  ; and,  alas!  no  better 

Miss  C.  You  are  looking  more  interesting  than  ever.  What  a 
lovely  Cashmere  ! 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  Mr.  Merryweather  bought  it  me  yesterday.  Alas  ! 

[Sighs. 

Miss  C.  Ah ! I understand  that  sigh.  The  mention  of  his  name. 

Mrs.  M.  He  means  kindly,  dear  Miss  Crane.  Do  not  be  hard  on 
him. 

Miss  C.  Ah  ! I know  the  forgivingness  of  your  angel  nature. 


VICTIMS. 


13 


Mrs.  M.  N?  y — suffering  is  the  lot  of  all  our  sex.  If  it  com4  to 
me  in  the  form  of  union  with  a being  who  cannot  sympathize  with  me 
• — with  whom  I cannot  sympathize — let  me  endure  in  silence.  It  is 
my  duty. 

Miss  G.  Ah  ! in  the  present  unnatural  state  of  society — it  may  be 
our  duty  to  bow  the  km  * to  stoop  the  neck,  and  even  to  bridle  th« 
tongue — but  it  shall  not  oe  so  always  ; when  I marry,  dear  Emily,  I 
will  show  a different  example. 

Mrs.  M.  [Smiling.']  It  is  well  Mr.  Butterby  is  not  withm  hearing. 

Miss  C.  Oh ! Joshua  understands  me.  He  feels,  as  I do,  that 
woman’s  mission  is  anything  but  submission.  I’ve  taught  him  the 
rudiments  of  the  question,  and  after  we  are  married,  I’ll  complete  the 
lesson. 

Mrs.  M.  Ah ! why  have  I not  your  strength  of  mind  arid  body,  and 
then  I could  shatter  the  chain  that  now  galls  me.  A pretty  bracelet, 
dear,  don’t  you  think  so  1 [Showing  bracelet 

Miss  G.  Yes,  sweet,  indeed  ! Turquoise  and  silver  goes  so  well  with 
the  sweet  pallor  of  your  complexion. 

Mrs.  M.  Flatterer ! 

Miss  G.  I know  whose  taste  it  is — I’m  sure  I do  ! Ah  ! don’t  blush 
—own  it  is  the  choice  of  our  gifted  friend,  Fitzherbert. 

Mrs  M.  No,  indeed  ! it  was  Mr.  Merryweather  presented  it  to  me. 

Mrs.  G.  Indeed ! I should  not  have  expected  anything  so  pretty 
from  him. 

Mrs.  M.  I hope  you  do  not  think  I would  receive  any  present  from 
Mr.  Fitzherbert. 

Miss  C Oh,  we  are  able  to  defy  the  shallow  rules  of  whr.t  triflers 
call  society. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  from  him  I accept  only  sympathy,  and  flowers.  This 
bouquet — it  comes  from  him,  I feel  it  does.  Sweet  floweril  The  best 
exponents  of  feelings  like  his. 

Miss  G.  Have  you  seen  him  this  morning  I 

Mrs.  M.  No  ! these  flowers  came  like  fairy  gifts — without  hands. 

Miss  G.  How  interesting  he  was  last  night  after  the  concert  ; and 
Hornblower  was  great — great,  indeed. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  I am  happy  at  least,  in  my  friends.  But  did  you  not 
think  Herbert  looked  wan  and  unhappy  l 

Miss  C.  My  dear,  I never  stoop  to  notice  faces — I see  minds,  nothing 
but  minds,  and  lighted  by  mind  the  most  ordinary  features  become 
beautiful — even  Joshua’s 

Mrs.  M.  I am  sure  Herbert  has  a secret  sorrow : do  you  know  any- 
thing of  his  private  history? — where  he  lives? 

Miss  G.  Nothing — his  life  is  mystery. 

Mrs.  M.  What  a charm  that  gives  him  ; I wish  I knew  why  ne  looks 
so  pale,  why  he  sighs  so  often,  why  he  fixes  his  eyes  so  on  me,  when 
in  spite  of  myself  I reveal  the  sufie.'iogs  unde*  whiuh  I am  sinking, 
why  he  never  eats  anything  ! 

Miss  G.  Eats  ! — Genius  is  like  the  cam^loon,  it  fake*  and 

lives  upon  air.  As  to  his  history,  dear,  I’ve  not  a notion,  but  I’ll  ask 


14 


VICTIMS. 


Joshua.  You  know  what  friends  they  arc.  That,  after  all,  is  one  of 
Joshua’s  fine  traits — his  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  his  friends. 

Mrs  M.  Yes — as  Mr.  Merry  weather  coarsely  says  of  him,  “ All  his 
geese  are  swans.” 

Miss  C.  An  elevated  nature  would  have  said,  “ All  his  swans  are 
eagles.”  Suppose  I question  him  a little  about  Fitzherbert,  he’s  in  J 
the  garden!  [Going,  returns. ] By-the- way,  though,  I had  forgotten 
one  thing— here’s  the  address  of  that  young  pianist,  which  I promised 
you  last  night.  I understand  it  is  a charity  to  employ  her,  and  I know 
your  great  luxury  is  doing  good.  [Gives  card. 

Mrs.  M.  [Reads  card.]  “Lucy  Aiken,  3 Harriet  Street,  Belgrave 
Square.”  Thank  you — meanwhile,  I will  try  and  get  a little  rest — I 
feel  languid. 

Miss  C.  I’ve  brought  you  my  last  volume.  [Taking  book  from  iag.l 
“The  Wrongs  of  Woman.”  In  Chapter  III.,  I treat  of  ill-assorted 
marriages.  I’ve  had  your  sad  case  in  my  eye  all  through.  It  will 
amuse  you — it  is  thought  to  be  harrowing  ; I wrote  it  with  a bleeding 

hea“-  „ ln  [Ex it,  a. 

Mrs.  M.  Ill-assorted  marriages  ! Yes  ! I should  have  been  a poet’s 
wife — to  have  shared  in  his  aspirations,  partaken  his  hopes,  exulted  in 
his  fame  ! Oh,  Fitzherbert — Fitzherbert,  why  did  we  not  meet  ’ere  I 
had  become  the  wife  of  one  who  cannot  understand  me  ? The  very 
name,  Merryweather,  is  redolent  of  vulgar  happiness.  How  poorly  his 
bracelet  shows  by  the  side  of  Herbert’s  flowers  ! How  can  he  love 
me  ] He  says  he  does;  but  there  cannot  be  any  real  attachment  between 
natures  so  uncongenial  as  ours  ; besides,  if  he  loved  me,  would  he 
leave  me  thus,  sad  and  suffering  as  I am  ! He  says  it  is  for  business  ; 
how  do  I know — have  I his  confidence  1 Does  he  ever  tell  ine  of  his 
plans — of  his  friends — of  his  amusements  1 1 promised  to  tell  Herbert 

how  I was  to  day — I will  write  to  him.  [Approaches  writing  table  l.] 
My  husband’s  desk — and  the  key  in  it!  Strange!  he  generally  keeps  it 
so  carefully  locked.  [iSTis  takes  hold  of  the  key.]  Hoyv  easily  the  key 
turns  in  the  lock  ! I declare  it  has  opened.  What’s  this  ! [Examines 
contents  of  box.]  My  letters — the  utterance  of  my  foolish,  girlish  heart, 
when  I thought  I loved  him.  And  this  ! a lock  of  hair,  and  not  mine  ; 
and  this  packet!  “My  letters  to  dear  Lucy  Aiken.”  Lucy  Aiken  ! 
the  name  on  that  card  ! No  date  to  the  letters.  Oh,  if  he  could  be 
deceiving  me,  then,  indeed,  my  cup  of  misery  would  be  full  to  the 
brim.  [ She  sinks  on  the  sofa  and  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  ] I 
knew  I didn’t  love  him,  but  I thought  he  loved  me. 

Enter  Skimmer  l.  d.  2 e. 

Skim.  [Announcing.]  Mr.  Fitzherbert. 

Enter  Fitzheebert,  l.  d.  2 e.,  and  exit.  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 e. 

Fitz.  [Aside.]  So  ! my  bouquet  by  her  side  ! My  dear  Mrs.  Merry- 
weather,  you  are  ill — I disturb  you. 

Mrs.  M.  (r.  c.)  No,  no — stay,  Her — Mr.  Fitzherbert — you  are  always 
welcome,  you  know. 

Fitz.  Ever  kind  ! [He  sits.]  I could  not  rest  until  I had  assured  my- 
self that  you  were  not  worse  for  the  excitement  of  last  night. 


VICTIMS. 


15 


Mrs.  M.  Oh,  no — music  never  overpowers  me. 

Fitz.  Ah  ! there  is  some  music  shakes  me  to  the  centre — when  jroa 
were  at  the  piano  last  night — 

“ My  spirit  like  a charmed  bark  did  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  that  sweet  singing  !” 

Mrs.  M.  You  never  sing 

Fitz.  Never  ! Poets  are  like  swans — when  we  become  vocal,  ’tis  in 
the  hour  of  their  closing  agony. 

Mrs.  M.  But  despair  must  not  be  kept  locked  in  the  heart,  or  it  may 
shatter  it. 

Fitz.  What  matter  when  the  heart  is  already  in  ruins — besides  we 
have  our  pens. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh  ! if  you  knew  the  comfort  your  poems  have  been  to  me 
— their  melancholy  cadence  falls  like  an  echo  of  my  own  sighs.  Griefs 
I have  never  confided  to  human  ears  are  laid  bare  in  your  verses. 

Fitz.  How  mysterious  is  the  free-masonry  of  suffering ! 

Mrs.  M.  Alas  ! 

Fitz.  What  is  life  without  sympathy  ! When  the  solitary  heart 
yearns  in  vain  for  a heart  to  respond  to  its  pulsations — when  the  lonely 
soul  groups  blindly  for  its  kindred  soul  and  finds  it  not.  This  agony 
which  I have  clothed  in  words — this  agony  yon  feel — is  it  not  so  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Why  should  I conceal  it  from  you!  But  you,  too,  have 
felt  it  1 

Fitz. — Have  I not ! but  I am  a man,  and  can  bear  it.  Besides,  we 
may  rebel — you  can  only  suffer. 

Mrs.  M.  It  is  too — too  true. 

Fitz.  [ Passionately .]  And  so,  souls  that  were  formed  to  understand 
and  answer  to  each  other,  by  the  cruel  chances  of  the  world,  must  stand 
afar  off,  and  measure  the  happiness  that  might  have  been,  by  the 
misery  that  is. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh  ! that  it  were  in  my  power  to  console  you — to  probe  your 
griefs  with  no  ungentle  hand. 

Fitz.  No,  I must  suffer  alone.  To  reveal  the  dark  chapters  of  my 
fate  were  but  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  yours.  But  you  received  my 
flowers ! 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  yes  ! 

Fitz.  And  you  are  not  offended  ! 

Mrs.  M.  Offended  ! Oh,  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  what  offence  can  come  of 
sympathy  so  conveyed  ! 

'Fitz.  Alas  ! 

Mrs.  M.  You  sigh  ! 

Fitz.  It  is  so  habitual  with  me,  I know  not  when  or  why  I do  it. 

Mrs.  M.  You  have  some  hidden  sorrow;  I know  you  have  something 
that  is  preying  on  your  heart. 

Fitz.  Ah,  if  I durst — 

Mrs.  M.  Confide  it  in  me  1 You  may — endurance  has  made  me 
quick  to  feel,  strong  to  comfort. 

Fitz.  No,  no ! why  harass  you  with  the  tale  of  blighted  hope*, 


16 


▼ICTIMS. 


baffled  aspiration,  misplaced  affection — and  all  these  aggravated  by  the 
ignoble  chafe  of  pecuniary  embarrassment  1 

Mrs.  M.  That,  at  least,  I can  free  you  from.  I am  rich — let  me  have 
the  pride  of  thinking  some  of  the  dross  my  husband  prizes  so  highly 
has  gone  to  alleviate  a poet’s  pang.  [ Takes  out  the  note  case 

Fitz.  No,  no,  most  noble  of  women,  yoj  distress  me.  It  is  true, 
that  yielding  to  the  urgent  demands  of  a friend,  I had  accepted  bills. 

Mrs.  M.  There  is  a hundred  pounds  here — oh,  take  it  pray — pray 
take  it — as  a loan  merely — I cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  exposed  to 
the  hardship  of  a prison. 

Fitz.  Oh,  woman  ! woman  ! How  sublime  are  thou  in  thy  inspira- 
tions of  pity  ! [ Falls  on  his  knees.']  Let  me  thus,  on  my  knees — 

[ Seizing  her  hand 

Mrs.  M.  No,  pray — Mr.  Fitzherbert — get  up,  sir — pray. 

Enter  Merry  weather  from  the  conservatory , c. — he  pauses  and  starts. 

Mrs.  M.  [ Catching  sight  of  him.]  My  husband  ! 

Fitz.  Yes,  I think  that  is  the  way  we  had  better  manage  it.  [Mer- 
ryweather  comes  forward,  r.]  Ah,  Mr.  Merryweather,  we  were  re- 
hearsing for  our  tableau  vivant  this  evening — Paolo  and  Francesca,  you 
know. 

Mer.  Ah,  just  at  the  moment  when  they  are  discovered  by  the  hus- 
band ; your  expressions  are  capital,  both  of  them.  But  the  rehearsal 
has  fatigued  you,  my  love — you  are  pale. 

Mrs.  M.  It  has  overpowered  me  a little. 

Mer.  Mr.  Fitzherbert  throws  so  much  earnestness  into  his  acting 

Fitz.  Yes,  I give  way  to  the  illusion  of  the  scene  too  much. 

Mer.  A good  deal,  I think. 

Fitz.  I shall  never  forgive  myself  if  I have  tired  Mrs.  Merryweather 
—I  must  repair  my  indiscretion  by  adjourning  the  rehearsal ; good 
morning. 

Mer.  Pray  don’t  let  me  interrupt  you.  I have  merely  entered  for 
the  books  I want. 

Fitz.  No,  no  ! [Aside.]  He  doesn’t  suspect  anything.  [Aloud.]  1 
really  must  do  penance  ; good  morning.  [Aside.]  Just  before  I had 
accepted  the  loan,  too.  Provoking  ! [Aloud  ] Good  morning. 

[Exit,  l.  d.  2 E. 

Mer.  Can  I not  help  you,  Emily  1 

Mrs.  M.  I will  not  trouble  you.  He  has  tired  me  sadly.  I feel  faint. 
Will  you  ring  for  Satchell  1 [Merryweather  rings.]  I will  lie  down 
for  a moment  is  my  own  room  ; a little  rest  will  do  me  good. 

Enter  Satchell,  r.  d.  f. 

[Aside.]  Oh,  he  saw  Herbert  on  his  knees — I am  sure  he  did.  He 
does  not  ;we  me  or  he  would  be  much  more  agitated. 

[Exit,  r.  n.  f.,  leaning  on  Satchell. 

Mer.  up  and  down  two  or  three  times.]  Can  it  be  truel  were 

they  really  only  rehearsing — or  are  they  imposing  on  my  simplicity  ! 
Oh  ! Emily — Emily,  I knew  you  did  not  love  me — but  to  allow  anothei 
•— snd  when  I weuld  give  my  right  hand  to  spare  her  a moment's  paia 


VICTIMS. 


17 


No,  I deserve  such  a return  so  little,  that  I will  not  believe  it.  [Site.] 
And  yet  this  Fitzherbert  is  constantly  here  in  my  absence.  He  under- 
stands her — and  then  his  infernal  poetry.  [Catches  sight  of  bouquet .] 
I wonder  where  those  flowers  came  from!  They  were  not  here  when 
I left  the  house  this  morning.  [Rings.]  From  him — I’ll  be  sworn 
they  are. 

Enter  Skimmer,  l.  d.  2 *. 

Who  brought  these  flowers  ! 

Skim.  The  bouquet,  sir  ? 

Met.  Yes,  sir,  answer  me  at  once. 

Skim.  Mr.  Butterby,  sir. 

Mer.  You  are  sure  of  it  1 

Skim.  Yes,  sir — he  giv’  them  to  my  own  ’ands,  sir,  and  part’c’ly 
told  me  I wasn’t  to  tell  anybody  who  they  came  from. 

Mer.  Oh  ! that  will  do,  James — you  may  go  . 

[Exit  Skimmer,  l.  o.  2 e. 
Butterby  ! Ha,  ha,  ha  1 To  think  I should  have  tormented  myself 
about  a present  of  Butterby’s.  What  an  ass  I am,  to  be  sure  * They 
were  rehearsing — of  course  they  were. 

Enter  Miss  Crane  from  garden , c. 

Ah,  Miss  Crane  ! 

Miss  C.  I expected  to  find  Emily — 

Mer.  She  has  gone  to  lie  down  a little ; she  is  fatigued  with  hei 
rehearsal. 

Miss  C.  Rehearsal ! 

Mer.  Yes,  one  of  to-night’s  tableaux  vivants,  with  Mr.  Fitzherbert ; 
I found  them  at  it.  By-the-way,  here’s  a bouquet,  which  I think  you 
have  more  claim  to  than  Emily.  [Presents  it. 

Miss  C.  Sir ! 

Mer.  Oh,  it’s  not  from  me — it’s  from  Mr.  Butterby. 

Miss  C.  From  Mr.  Butterby  ! 

Mer.  James  informs  me  he  left  it  this  morning.  It  does  great  credit 
to  his  taste. 

Miss  C.  [Aside.]  What  can  he  mean!  Joshua  send  bouquets  to 
Emily.  [Takes  it— finding  note  in  the  middle .]  What’s  this!  Verses  ! 
[Reads.]  Oh ! [Screams 

Mer.  A note — in  the  bouquet ! Miss  Crane  ! 

Enter  Butterby  from  the  garden , c.  down  l. 

But.  Minerva’s  voice  ! what’s  the  matter ! 

Miss  C.  Leave  me,  monster  ! 

But.  [To  Merry  weather.]  Vou  are  to  leave  her  ! monster  1 
Miss  C.  No,  you,  sir  ! Leave  me ! 

But.  But,  Minerva — 

Miss  C.  Then,  sir,  I will  leave  you  ! all  is  at  an  end  between  ua> 
Make  way,  sir — you  are  beneath  my  resentment.  I hate  you  ! 

[Exit  majestically,  l.  d.  2 E 
But.  Is  Minerva  mad ! Do  you  know  what  has  thus  shaken  her 
remarkably  firm  mind,  Mr.  Merry  weather ! 


18 


VICTIMS. 


Mer.  Your  bouquet,  yonder — she’s  jealous  of  my  wife.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
But.  Nonsense  1 it’s  not  my  bouquet,  it’s  Fitz’s — he  asked  me  to 
eave  it — 

Mer.  His  ! Then  that  note — 

But.  What  note  ? 

Mer.  [ Seizing  the  note,  aside.]  In  his  hand  ! Oh,  Emily — Emily  ! 
But.  [Aghast.]  Another  case  of  spontaneous  combustion.  Oh,  for 
goodness  sake,  what  is  the  matter  1 [ Sinks  into  chair,  l.  of  k.  table. 

TABLEAU. END  OF  ACT  I. 


ACT  II.  , 

SCENE. — The  Sitting  Room  in  Fitzherbert' s Lodgings.  The  room  is 
comfortably  furnished.  Books  are  strewn  about ; a writing-table,  with 
manuscripts,  and  other  indications  of  literary  labor,  r.  ; a pianoforte, 
L. ; some  prints,  in  handsome  frames,  tyc. ; sofa,  chairs,  round  table, 
and  writing  table.  Window  in  flat,  r.  Door  in  flat,  l.,  communi- 
cating with  bedroom;  doors  r.  3 e.  and  l 2 e.,  one  ledding  to  the  stairs, 
the  other  to  the  back  stairs.  Fireplace,  r. 

Mrs.  Fitzherbert  discovered. 

Mrs.  F.  Four  o’clock  ! Herbert  will  soon  be  home  ; let  me  see  if 
all  is  ready  for  him,  He  shall  find  his  dressing-gown  nice  and  warm 
[Hangs  it  before  fire ],  and  his  slippers.  [Puts  them  before  fender.]  I must 
embroider  a new  pair  soon — dear  fellow — and  his  chair,  with  my  own 
work.  [ Wheels  a worked  chair  near  the  fire.]  There ! all  looks  very 
cozy — and  I’ve  put  fresh  ink  in  the  stand,  and  mended  his  pens.  How 
proud  I am  to  think  that  I can  mend  the  pens  he  writes  his  beautiful 
verses  with.  And  now  I must  get  on  with  these  troublesome  caps  of 
Mrs.  Merry  weather’s,  while  baby’s  asleep.  [ She  sits  down  to  work.]  He 
grows  more  like  dear  Herbert  every  day.  [ A knock  at  the  door,  k.  3 
e.]  Come  in  ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Sharp,  r.  d.  3 e. 

Oh l Mrs.  Sharp!  Good  afternoon! 

Mrs.  S.  (r.)  [ Presenting  a paper.]  If  you  please,  mum,  a man  hav 
.eft  this  bill,  and  will  be  obliged  if  it  could  be  settled  at  once. 

Mrs.  F.  (r.  c.)  A bill ! [Aside.]  How  provoking!  Tell  him,  if  you 
please,  that  Mr.  Fitzherbert  is  not  at  home ; but  that  he  shall  have  it 
when  he  comes  in,  directly 

Mrs.  S.  He  says  he’s  been  three  times  already,  mum. 

Mrs.  F.  I’m  very  sorry.  I’m  sure.  [Looks  at  bill.]  For  flowers,  one 
pound  twelve  shillings. 

Mrs.  S.  And  I’d  be  much  obliged,  mum,  if  you  could  settle  the  rent. 
There’s  nearly  a month  owing,  you  know,  and  if  I have  to  wait  for  my 
money,  other  parties  has  to  wait  for  theirs  ; and  it  was  understood  the 
•partments  was  took  by  the  week. 


VICTIMS.  _ 10 

Mr*.  F.  Yes,  I’m  sure,  Mrs.  Sharp,  if  I had  the  money  you  should 
De  paid  directly,  but — 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  mum,  but  good  will  won’t  pay  butchers  and  bakers,  you 
tnow — and  when  parties  can  find  money  for  flowers,  and  pianos,  and 
pictures,  it’s  only  nat’ral,  you  see — 

Mrs  F.  Dear  Mrs.  Sharp,  don’t  be  angry,  I’m  so  sorry  ; but,  if  you’d 
only  wait  a little — such  a very  little — [coaxingly]  you  don’t  know  how 
rich  I shall  be  soon.  Now,  do. 

Mrs.  S.  Ah,  well,  you’re  an  angel,  that’s  what  you  are  ! But  as  for 
Mr.  Fitz — 

Mrs.  F.  Now,  Mrs.  Sharp.  [Stops  her  mouth  playfully.]  You  really 
sha’n’t  say  a word  against  my  husband. 

Mrs.  S.  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  lettin’  you  toil  and  moil 
— and  so  I’ll  tell  him. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  now,  dear  Mrs.  Sharp,  you  promised  to  keep  my  secret. 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  that  I did,  certainly,  and  to  take  in  letters  and  mes- 
sages for  Miss  Aiken. 

Mrs.  F.  It’s  my  maiden  name,  Mrs.  Sharp  ; you  see,  my  husband 
would  be  angry  if  he  knew  I worked  and  gave  music  lessons.  He’s  of 
a much  higher  family  than  I am,  and  it  is  natural  he  should  be  proud. 

Mrs.  S.  It  would  be  better  if  his  pride  set  him  earnin’  money  to  pay 
his  debts.  But  I don’t  want  to  hurt  you,  mem,  I’m  sure,  and  I’ll  say 
nothing  more  about  But  the  rent  I must  have,  and  so  you  may  tell 
Mr.  Fitzherbert.  ' [Exit,  r.  n.  3 e. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  if  dear  Herbert  would  only  be  a little  more  careful.  One 
pound  twelve  for  flowers!  and  I’m  sure  we  could  get  on  very  well  with- 
out a piano — and  all  those  prints,  too.  [Changing  her  tone.]  What  a 
selfish,  thoughtless  thing  I am!  As  if  I could  understand  how  neces- 
sary flowers  and  music  and  beautiful  faces  are  to  a poet  like  Herbert ! 
When  I think  that  he  stooped  to  marry  me’,  I ought  to  be  too  glad  to 
aid  him  out  of  my  little  earnings.  I hope  Miss  Crane  has  persuaded 
her  rich  friend  to  engage  me  to  play  at  her  soiree.  That  will  be  ten 
shillings  towards  the  rent — and  then,  for  my  caps,  let  me  see,  I shall 
have — Hark! — dear  Herbert’s  step ! Bless  him! — I must  put  away 
my  work.  He  doesn’t  like  it. 

[She  jumps  up,  and  puts  away  her  work-basket  in  the  drawer  of  the 
table,  but  leaves  cap  on  table,  and  runs  to  the  door,  l.  2 e. 

Enter  Fitzherbert,  l.  2 e. 

[She  runs  up  to  him  and  throws  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

I’m  so  glad  you’ve  come  back,  dear — I’ve  everything  ready  fcr  you. 
See,  here’s  your  dressing-gown,  and  your  slippers,  and  your  own,  own 
chair. 

[He  puts  on  dressing-gown , and  sits  in  chair,  R.,  without  speaking. 
And  if  you  feel  in  the  humor  for  writing,  I’ve  mended  plenty  of  pens— 
and  here’s  a new  quire  of  paper — 

Fitz.  (r.)  [Shaking  his  head  impatiently.]  For  Heaven’s  sake  do 
•Witrive  to  hold  your  tongue  for  an  instant,  Lucy,  you  distract  me. 

Mrs.  F.  (r.  c.)  I beg  your  pardon,  love — I’m  very  thoughtless. 


20 


VICTIM8. 


Fitz.  And  here  you’ve  been  at  your  old  tricks,  deranging  all  my 
papers.  How  often  have  I told  you  I would  not  have  my  papers  dis- 
turbed? 

Mrs.  F.  I’m  very  sorry — I thought — 

Fitz.  Oh,  no  explanations,  pray — I hate  discussion.  You’ve  done 
exactly  what  you  ought  not  to  have  done,  and  there’s  an  end  of  it. 

Mrs.  F.  Yes,  dear,  I’ll  be  a good  girl  in  future. 

[Her  voice  falters. 

Fitz.  There,  now  you’re  going  to  cry.  What  in  earth  have  I said 
or  done  that  you  should  whimper  at? 

Mrs.  F.  Nothing,  dear,  I’m  sure — 

Fitz.  When  I come  home,  harrassed  by  all  sorts  of  difficulties  and 
botherations,  instead  of  the  comfort  of  a quiet  fire-side,  I’m  to  be  treated 
to  a scene  ! But  you  women  have  no  consideration. 

Mrs.  F.  I beg  your  pardon,  dearest — 

Fitz.  There  again,  Lucy — can’t  you  let  the  matter  drop?  Any 
letters  come  since  I’ve  been  out  ? 

Mrs.  F.  Only  this,  dear.  [ Holding  bill. 

Fitz.  Well,  why  can’t  you  give  it  me  ? 

Mrs.  F.  It’s  a bill,  dear,  from  Covent  Garden,  for  flowers. 

Fitz.  [Takes  it , and  crumples  it  up .]  Confound  those  Jews  ! — they’re 
always  in  such  an  infernal  hurry  for  their  money.  [ Flings  bill  on  one 
side.]  It  would  serve  the  old  witch  right  if  1 never  bought  anothei 
bouquet  at  her  rascally  shop. 

Mrs.  F.  And  Mrs.  Sharp  has  been  up  again  about  the  rent. 

Fitz.  Yes,  that’s  right,  let  me  hear  of  every  infernal  dun  who  has 
been  clamoring  and  pressing,  do!  You’ve  chosen  your  time  well, 
just  when  judgment  has  very  likely  been  entered  upon  those  bills  of 
Butterby’s,  and  I may  be  arrested  at  any  moment. 

[iftses  and  crosses  to  l 

Fitz.  Yes — arrested.  You  don’t  suppose,  because  I’m  a man  of 
genius,  and  a poet — because  I’ve  hampered  myself  with  a wife  and 
a child — that  the  law  will  forego  its  prey  ? 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  Herbert,  dear  Herbert!  can  nothing  be  done — Mr 
Butterby  ? 

Fitz.  He  hasn’t  a farthing  to  spare.  After  his  marriage  with  Mias 
Crane  he  may  he  able  to  do  something. 

Mrs.  F.  But  the  publishers — your  friend,  Mr.  Hornblower  ? 

Fitz.  He  ! He’d  see  me  rot  in  the  Bench  before  he’d  advance  me  a 
shilling.  Besides,  I’m  twenty  pounds  in  his  debt  for  contributions  al- 
ready. [ Walks  about  from  l.  to  r.  and  back.]  Good  Heaven  ! how 
is  a man  to  whip  imagination  into  a gallop  with  all  this  weight  of  em- 
barrassment on  his  back  ! A poet  ! a being  who  should  be  lodged  in 
a palace,  lulled  by  sweet  sounds,  intoxicated  by  delicious  odors, 
inspired  by  beautiful  forms,  surrounded  with  all  appliances  of  repose, 
and  luxury — pent  up  here  in  a mean  lodging — dunned  for  money — 
distracted  by  the  cares  of  a family — how  is  it  possible  that  I can  reveal 
to  the  world  the  powers  that  lie  dormant  within  me?  But  I forgot. 
How  should  you  understand  these  sufferings  ? 

Mrs.  F.  I understand  but  little,  dear  ! I am  very  simple,  but  I lov# 


VICTIMS.  21 

you  very  much,  and  my  only  prayer  is  that  I may  be  able  to  help  and 
comfort  rny  husband. 

Fitz.  Yes,  you’re  a good  girl,  Lucy — but  it  has  been  your  misfortune 
to  marry  a man  whose  mind  dwells  in  a different  region  from  yours, 
and  you  must  take  the  consequences. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  I would  take  them  were  they  twenty  times  as  hard  to 
bear,  if  I could  only  comfort  you  a little. 

Fitz.  You  do  your  best — I know  you  do — I appreciate  your  good 
intentions.  [Crosses  back  to  chair,  r.,  and  sits. 

Mrs.  F.  Thank  you,  dear  Herbert,  I am  sure  you  do.  [<SAc  sits  on  a 
footstool  on  his  l.  side,  and  takes  his  hand.]  Believe  me,  dear,  1 am 
sensible  of  all  you  have  done  for  me — how  you  have  forgone  all  that 
your  birth  and  genius  could  have  commanded,  to  link  yourself  to  a poor 
girl  with  no  fortune,  no  talents — nothing,  in  short,  but  her  strong  love 
and  honest  heart  to  give  in  exchange  for  the  name  of  your  wife. 

Fitz.  I believe  it,  Lucy — I am  sure  you  feel  the  sacrifice  I have  made 
for  you. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh  yes  ! and  now,  dear,  they  say  a woman’s  tongue  is  per- 
suasive, you  know  ; suppose  you  were  to  let  me  see  Mr.  Hornblower, 
and  try  to  induce  him  to  advance  you  something  1 I’ll  tell  him  you’re 
going  to  be  so  diligent,  and  so  brilliant — but  that  he  knows  already. 

Fitz. — No,  no — you  remember  our  compact — that,  for  a time  at  least, 
our  marriage  was  to  be  kept  a secret. 

Mrs.  F.  Yes,  I submit  to  that — to  anything  you  like  to  impose,  but  I 
thought  that  now,  perhaps — 

Fitz.  No  ; we  must  keep  the  secret  a little  longer ; you  have  no  no- 
tion how  the  knowledge  that  I am  married  would  diminish  people’s 
interest  in  me — the  ladies  especially — and  interest  is  all  .1  have  to  trust 
to,  as  yet. 

Mrs.  F.  I’m  sure  if  they  knew  your  talents  somebody  must  give  you 
something. 

Fitz.  [ifo'ses  and  crosses  to  L.  shrugging  his  shoulders.]  Yes,  a col- 
lectorship  of  stamps,  like  Wordsworth,  or  a gauger’s  place,  like  Burxs. 
No,  I may  sink,  but  I will  never  stoop! 

Mrs.  F.  Anything  is  better  than  debt,  dear. 

Fitz.  Pshaw  ! you  cannot  understand  the  loathing  of  a poet’s  na- 
ure  for  the  sordid  trafficking  of  your  men  of  business.  But  ’tis  the 
ate  of  genius  to  be  misunderstood,  misplaced,  misconstrued  ! 

Enter  Mary  Bustle,  d.  r.  3 e. 

Mary.  Mr.  Hornblower,  sir. 

Fitz.  Very  well — show  him  up.  \Exit,  Mart,  d.  r.  2 e 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  do  try  if  he  won’t  advance  you  a little  more. 

Fitz.  Well,  well,  I’ll  try.  Go  into  the  bedroom — Hornblower  only 
knows  me  as  a bachelor. 

Mi's.  I’ll  be  as  quiet  as  a mouse,  love 

[ Kisses  him,  and  exits  into  bed-room,  d.  l.  t 

Fils,  (l.)  Poor  thing  ! — can’t  understand  me  in  the  least — but  she 
flaeans  well.  Now  for  Rhadamanthus. 


VICTIMS, 


» 

Enter  Hornb lower,  d.  r.  3 E. 

Ah,  Hornblower,  delighted  to  see  you. 

Horn,  (r.)  Pens — ink — paper — and  your  dressing-gown  ! That’s  as 
it  should  be — nothing  like  a soldier  in  his  uniform,  arms  in  hand.  Well, 
the  mtise  is  propitious,  I hope — we  are  brilliant,  eh?  What  is  it— 
epic  or  lyric — Pope  or  Anacreon  ? Are  we  going  to  convulse  the  pub 
lie  with  our  fun,  or  awe  them  with  our  agony,  or  to  mystify  them  witt 
our  metaphysics  ? “ Under  which  King,  Bezonian,  speak  or  die  !” 

Fitz.  [Crossing  to  table , r,  and  producing  MS  ] I have  here  a series 
of  sketches  from  life — mixed  humor  and  pathos,  which  I was  working  up 

Horn.  The  very  thing,  my  boy  ! A dash  of  Tennyson  in  a bumper 
of  Hood — green  tea  laced  with  cognac — couldn’t  be  better. 

Fitz.  Shall  I read  you  a specimen  1 

Horn.  No,  no  ; confound  it  ! Pm  an  editor  not  an  auditor.  It’s  the 
public’s  business  to  read. 

Fitz.  Highly  finished — you  know. 

Horn.  Ah,  polish — polish!  That’s  the  thing.  Better  one  pearl 

will  set  than  a ton  of  pearl  oysters.  How  much  1 

Fitz.  They  will  make  about  a sheet. 

Horn.  Oh,  we’d  find  room  for  them  if  they  came  to  twice  as  much. 

Fitz.  I must  have  twenty  guineas  for  them. 

Horn.  [ Taking  the  MS.]  Twenty  guineas ! my  dear  boy — the  age 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  itself  that  measures  the  value  of  such  things 
by  paltry  dross.  Oblige  me  by  not  mentioning  price  in  connection 
with  productions  destined  to  live  for  ever. 

Fitz.  Meantime,  the  author  must  live,  too, 

Horn.  Live ! of  course  he  must.  The  days  of  Grub  Street  and 
Garretteers  are  over.  Literature  is  honored  and  remunerated  as  it  de- 
serves. Here  you  are,  for  instance,  feted,  lionized,  and  paid — splendidly 
paid  ; you  can’t  imagine  the  pleasure  I feel  in  paying  my  contributors. 

Fitz.  I know  you  do — so,  as  here’s  pen  and  ink,  you  may  as  well 
draw  the  check  at  once. 

Horn.  The  check?  You  forge*,  my  dear  fellow,  we  are  not  square. 

Fitz.  Oh ! I’ll  work  the  old  debt  off  next  month  ; I want  to  start  fair 
with  this  article. 

Horn.  Suppose  we  started  fair  with  the  next  ? This  sheet  will  just 
balance  our  account.  [Huts  MS.  in  his  pocket. 

Fitz.  But  the  fact  is,  my  dear  Hornblower,  I want  the  money 
infernally. 

Horn.  Of  course  you  do.  But  my  dear  boy,  I make  it  a rule,  nevei 
to  trust  a poet.  Their  will  to  work  is  excellent,  but  their  inspiration  is 
so  uncertain  ; the  only  thing  that  always  sets  it  agoing  is — “ work 
done,  money  down.”  Good  morning?  I’ve  to  see  Muddlemist  for  half 
a sheet  of  Metaphysics,  and  Curdle  for  a slashing  article  on  Agricul- 
tural Statistics.  [Crosses  towards  d.  r. 

Fitz.  But  you’ve  put  my  verses  in  your  pocket. 

Horn.  As  you  did  my  twenty  guineas,  two  months  ago.  Miserably 
below  the  value  of  your  immortal  work.  I’m  quite  aware  ; but  remem- 
ber, my  boy,  Paradise  Lost”  was  sold  for  ten  pounds.  Be  that  your 
consolation  [Exit,  r.  d.  3 e. 


VICTIMS. 


23 


Filz.  Confound  the  old  humbug,  he’s  done  me  ; I knew  he  would. 
But  how  is  the  poet  to  struggle  with  the  sordid  capitalist  1 No ; I 
must  look  on,  and  see  that  fellow  building  up  a fortune  out  of  my 
brains.  It  is  infamous  ! The  labor  of  a month  gone,  and  not  a farthing 
for  it.  It’s  downright  robbery  1 But  something  must  be  done  about 
these  bills.  Failing  a loan  from  my  sentimental  admirer,  Mrs.  Merry- 
weather,  I must  get  Butterby  to  renew.  His  marriage  will  set  him  up. 

Enter  Butterby,  r.  d.  3 e.,  with  a parcel  in  brown  paper  under  his  arm 

Talk  of  the  devil ! 

Butter,  (r.)  Well,  he’s  not  a pleasant  topic;  but  if  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  him,  I’m  your  man,  for  I’m  going  to  him  rapidly. 

Filz.  (l  ) What  do  you  mean  "? 

Butter.  I’m  ruined,  that's  all ; done  up,  my  boy,  By  Jove  ! I’ve  lost 
eight  hundred  a year. 

Fits.  You  ! 

Butter.  That  is,  I’ve  lost  the  prospect  of  it.  It  comes  to  the  same 
thing. 

Fitz.  What  do  you  mean  1 

Butter.  You  know  I was  to  marry  Miss  Crane,  a woman  with  a mas- 
culine understanding,  and  twenty-seven  thousand  in  the  three  per  cents, 
1 had  got  the  license,  sir,  bought  the  cake,  ordered  the  breakfast,  got 
home  my  wedding  suit — blue  and  brass,  canary  waistcoat,  and  lavender 
kerseymeres  ; tried  ’em  on  last  night  ; a beautiful  fit,  only  the  trousers 
wanted  taking  in.  I’ve  got  'em  in  this  parcel. 

Fitz.  Well  ! 

Butter.  And  now  all  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  I suppose  I must  eat  the 
cake.  I’ve  countermanded  the  breakfast,  and  I’m  going  to  try  to  per- 
suade the  tailor  to  take  back  the  lavender  kerseymeres  at  a reduction. 
Minerva  has  thrown  me  over. 

Fitz.  The  deuce  she  has  ! Why  1 

Butter.  It’s  all  that  infernal  bouquet  of  yours.  I was  fool  enough  to 
offer  it  to  a little  milliner,  and  she  must  have  been  told  of  it  by  some  of 
the  servants. 

Fitz.  [ Aside .]  My  note  ! [A/owd.]  But  you  gave  the  bouquet  to 
Mrs.  Merry  weather  ? 

Butter.  I left  it  for  her  ; but  of  course  I was  not  going  to  compromise 
you,  my  boy,  by  saying  you  sent  it. 

Fitz.  No,  no  ; did  quite  right.  But  this  matter  must  be  arranged 

Butter.  Howl  If  you’d  seen  the  look  she  gave  me,  and  heard  the 
style  she  pitched  into  me  ; I trembled,  by  Jove  I did,  before  that  mas- 
culine mind  of  hers.  She  was  awful — a fury  1 by  Jove,  a perfect  Lady 
Macbeth  ! Ristori’s  nothing  to  her. 

Fitz.  Oh  ! all  this  must  be  explained.  It  is  absolutely  necessary^ 
for  my  sake,  as  well  as  yours,  that  this  marriage  should  take  place. 
Those  bills  I accepted  must  be  renewed. 

Butter.  Why,  you  don’t  mean  to  say  you’ve  not  met  them  1 

Fitz.  No  ; I took  care  to  keep  out  of  their  way. 

Butter.  Then  the  indorsee  will  be  down  on  the  drawer,  and,  by  Jove  I 
the  drawer’s  empty.  [ Turns  out  his  trouser's  pockets 


24 


VICTIMS. 


Fitz.  And  then  they’ll  enter  up  judgment,  and  I shall  be  arrested. 

Butter.  You  arrested  1 Pooh  ! by  Jove,  they’ll  never  arrest  you 
Fitz  ; they’ve  too  much  respect  for  genius.  I’ll  tell  you  what — gel 
somebody  else  to  draw  on  you  ; I know  lots  of  capitalists— enormous 
capitalists.  They’ll  be  delighted  to  discount  your  paper— delighted. 

[Puts  parcel  on  table , r.  c. 

Fitz.  That  I may  find  myself  three  months’  hence  more  embarrasted 
than  I am  now.  No  ; you  must  renew,  and  when  you've  married  Miss 
Crane  you  can  pay  without  difficulty. 

Butler.  But  how  am  I to  make  it  up  with  Minerva! 

Fitz.  Oh,  I’ll  father  the  bouquet,  and  you  shall  make  her  a handsome 
present — a dress,  say,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

Butter.  Soften  a superior  woman  like  that  with  a dress,  pooh  1 You 
don’t  know  Minerva,  my  dear  Fitz,  you  don’t,  by  Jove. 

Fitz.  If  she  were  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  in  propria  persona,  she 
couldn’t  resist  the  allurements  of  Swan  and  Edgar’s.  I know  ’em, 
Butterby.  I tell  you  I’ll  make  up  this  quarrel — the  marriage  shall  come 
off,  and  you  shall  wear  your  lavendar  unmentionables,  renew  the  bills, 
and  be  happy  ever  after,  like  t\  e prince  in  the  fiiiry  tale. 

Butter.  By  Jove,  Fitz,  « a wonderful  creature.  The  way  you 
get  a fellow  into  a scrape,  aru  the  way  you  get  him  out  of  one  are 
equally  masterly. 

Fitz.  Your  happiness  js  a »i  lc,  rny  deer  Butterby,  and  for  a 
friend  like  you 

Butter.  My  dear  Fitz!  [Shaking  nis  hu‘‘< <£s.j  By  Jove,  you’re  the 
guardian  of  my  happiness,  as  I am  the  ‘.lampion  of  your  reputation. 
Let  any  man  touch  that,  and  he  will  have  to  settle  with  Josh  Butterby, 
by  Jove  he  will ! And  so  you  think  I may  have  the  lavenders  taken  in 1 

Fitz  Certainly ; and  we’ll  choose  the  dress  at  once. 

Butter.  I’ll  leave  the  continuations  at  my  tailor’s,  en  passant. 

Fitz.  No.  no — we  should  look  like  a shopman  and  an  errand  boy. 
We’ll  send  it  by  the  servant.  Put  a paper  in  the  parcel,  describing  the 
alterations  you  want. 

Butter.  Exactly  ! [ Crosses  to  table , r.,  and  writes — reading. ] “ They 
will  fit  very  well,  if  taken  in  half  an  inch  at  the  waist.”  [ Opens  parcel 
and  puts  in  note.]  And  that  will  allow  a margin  for  emotion  and  the 
wedding  breakfast.  There  ; and  now,  Fitz,  do  me  one  more  favor. 

Fitz.  What  is  it  1 

Butter.  Just  knock  us  off  a sonnet,  or  an  epigram,  or  an  acrostic,  or 
anything,  in  fact,  in  verse,  to  send  to  Minerva  with  the  dress— some- 
thing touching  and  appropriate — a sort  of — you  know — with  allusions 
—you  understand — I have  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  in  my  head,  only, 
by  Jove,  I can’t  express  it. 

Fitz.  Oh,  yes,  we’ll  talk  it  over  as  we  go  along.  [Butterworth  is 
going , r.  d , Fitzherbert  stopping  him.]  Not  by  the  front  door — 
there’s  a suspicious  customer  outside. 

Butter.  I see.  A Mosaic  Arab,  hung  in  chains  of  his  native  metal. 

Fitz.  This  way  ! [ Pointing  to  door , r.  2 s. 

Butter.  Back  stairs,  eh  1 — kitchen  door,  into  the  back  street ! ] 


VICTIMS. 


25 


twig ! By  Jove,  you’re  an  extraordinary  fellow,  Fitz — ex-traoni* 
jnary.  [ Exeunt , L.  d.  2 e. 

Mrs.  Sharp.  [Outside,  r.  d.  3e.]  First  floor  landing,  sir  ; door  facing 
you. 

Enter  Merryweather,  r.  d.  3 k. 

Merry.  Eh ! Nobody  here  ? She  said  I should  find  Fitzherbert. 
He’s  in  the  next  room,  perhaps  ; I’m  not  sorry  to  have  a moment  to 
settle  my  plan.  So — here  are  his  bills,  and  his  verses  from  that  d — d 
bouquet.  I wish  I could  endorse  the  one  with  “ No  effects,”  as  safely 
as  I may  the  other.  Here’s  incendiary  stuff  to  write  to  another  man’s 
wife.  [Reads. 

“ Dear  drooping  victim  of  a joyless  fate — ” 

That’s  Emily. 

“ The  tyrant’s  chain  thy  tender  neck  may  bind — ” 

That’s  me  1 Never  used  any  chain  worse  than  a twenty  guinet 
necklace. 

“ But  souls  in  destiny’s  despite  will  mate. 

Mind  unenthralled  will  seek  it’s  kindred  mind. 

As  captives  that  in  neighboring  dungeons  pir.e — M 

The  Acacias  a dungeon  l 

“ With  secret  tokens  cheat  their  heavy  hours, 

So  doth  my  captive  spirit  leap  to  thine, 

Breathing  its  sympathy  in  these  poor  flowers.” 

Was  ever  such  rodomontade  1 and  yet  it’s  trash  like  this  that  has 

fersuaded  poor  Emily  she’s  a victim,  and  I’m  a brute — they  all  agreed 
was  one,  and  I thought  I must  be  one  for  along  time.  But  I’m  not — 
Rowley  says  I’m  not  ! No,  I’m  d — d if  I am  ! And  this  comes  from 
a coxcomb  I could  clap  in  the  Bench  to-morrow — not  that  I mean  to  do 
anything  of  the  kind  ! No — I will  teach  him  what  “ the  tyrant  ” is. 
I’ll  burn  his  bills  before  his  own  eyes,  return  him  his  ridiculous  lines, 
and  beg  him  to  oblige  me  by  not  giving  me  or  my  wife  any  more  of  his 
company.  Luckily  Emily  has  not  seen  his  note — I hope  it’s  the  first — 
surely  she  would  never  forget  herself  so  far — and  yet  that  rehearsal — 
[ don’t  know  what  to  think.  That’s  the  worst  of  these  fine  sentiments; 
they’re  like  the  mirage  eastern  travellers  write  about ; seen  through 
their  medium,  sin  looks  heroic,  and  duty  despicable.  Fitzherbert 
doesn’t  make  his  appearance,  though.  Egad  1 I’ll  inclose  him  his  bills 
and  note  ; I can  write  what  I want  to  express  better  than  I can 
say  it. 

[ Crosses  to  table,  r..  sits,  and  writes . with  his  back  to  the  door,  l.  v 
Enter  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  d.  l.  e. 

Mrs.  F.  All  gone!  [Runs  up  to  Merry  weather,  r.]  Herbert, 
lear — 

Merry,  [r. — turns  round  ] Eh  ? — why — 

Mrs.  F.  [r.  o.J  I beg  your  pardon,  I thought  it  was— 

2 


26 


VICTIMS, 


Merry.  Lucy  Aiken  ! 

Mrs.  F.  Mr.  Langford. 

Merry.  Good  Gracious  ! Why,  Lucy  ! [Takes  both  her  hands  and 
shakes  them  heartily .]  My  dear  little  friend,  Lucy — that  is — What  on 
earth  are  you  doing  here,  in  Mr.  Fitzherbert’s  lodgings  1 

Mrs.  F.  He  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Langford. 

Merry.  Your  husband,  Lucy  1 Fitzherbert  your  husband,  anu 
never  heard  of  it ! 

Mrs.  F.  No  ; you  see,  it’s  a secret.  You’ll  not  betray  us,  I’m  sure 
you  won’t,  will  you  1 

Merry.  Betray  you  ! — a secret,  Lucy  ? Remember,  I was  your  fath- 
er’s friend — I knew  you  a very  little  girl  Lucy — I — You  are  married, 
Lucy  1 

Mrs.  F.  Mr.  Langford ! 

Merry.  Forgive  me — no,  I don’t  mean  that — of  course  you  are. 

Mrs.  F.  We  were  married  secretly.  Herbert’s  family  are  proud,  and 
— But  you’ll  keep  the  secret,  dear  Mr.  Langford  '!- 

Merry.  Yes.  But  to  think  of  my — Good  gracious  ! Why,  do  you 
know,  Lucy,  I was  looking  over  my  old  letters  to  you  this  very  morning, 
the  letters  you  sent  back,  you  know. 

Mrs  F.  Oh,  we  must  forget  all  that  now,  Mr.  Langford.  But  you 
are  well — you  are  happy. 

Merry.  Yes,  oh,  yes — I’m  married,  too,  Lucy. 

Mrs  F.  Oh,  I’m  so  glad  of  that,  for  then  I’m  sure  you  must  be 
happy. 

Merry.  You  think  it  follows — [With  a half  sigh. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  yes  ; for  you  would  never  marry  any  one  you  did  not 
love,  and  she  must  love  you,  you’re  so  good  and  kind. 

Merry.  But  you  did  not  love  me,  Lucy. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  yes,  I did,  very  much  indeed — like  an  elder 
brother. 

Merry.  Ah — exactly.  But  this — your  husband!  Remember  our 

old  friendship,  and  let  me  question’you,  Lucy.  Are  you  happy  1 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  yes,  very  happy.  You  would  not  ask  that  if  you  knew 
Herbert. 

Merry.  I — good  gracious  ! — eh  ? Oh,  I dare  say  I should’nt.  Well, 
you  seem  very  comfortable  here — pictures — a piano — 

Mrs.  F.  Yes,  Herbert  loves  to  surround  himself  with  all  that  is 
beautiful. 

Merry,  [aside.]  Without  paying  for  it. 

Mrs.  F.  But  how  did  you  find  out  I was  living  here? 

Merry.  Why — eh?  The  fact  is,  you  see — Howl  Why  don’t 
you  know  ? Can’t  you  guess  ? 

Mis.  F\  Oh,  to  be  sure;  I forgot  I had  given  my  maiden  name  at 
this  address. 

Merry.  Of  course.  [Aside.]  Thank  goodness,  she’s  explained  it. 
[Aside]  Yes,  as  you  gave  your  maiden  name,  how  was  I to  suppose 
you  were  married  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Sharp,  r.  d.  3 e. 

Mrs.  S.  A lady,  mem,  in  her  carriage.  Here’s  her  card. 


VICTIMS. 


27 


Mrs.  F Beg  her  to  walk  up  stairs.  [Exit  Mrs.  Sharp,  r.  d.  3 e 
[Aleads.]  “ Mrs.  Merry  weather.”  [To  him.]  You  won’t  mind. 

Merry.  [Aside.]  My  wife"!  What  should  she  come  here  for  1 To 
6ee  Fitzherbertl  [Aloud.]  Lucy,  put  me  somewhere.  This  lady 
musn’t  see  me — I mustn’t  see  her,  that  is — 

Mrs  F.  But — 

Merry.  Never  mind — I’ll  explain  all  after  she’s  gone.  Do  hide  me 
somewhere — anywhere — I insist  upon  it. 

Mrs.  F.  In  this  room,  Mr.  Langford,  but — 

Merry.  Not  a word,  now.  [Aside.]  If  she  has  come  to  see  Fitzher- 
bertl  I’ll  watch.  [Exit  into  bed-room , l.  f. 

Mrs.  F.  What  can  he  mean  by  this  strange  confusion  1 

Enter  Mrs.  Merryweather,  r.  d.  3 e.— Merryweather  peeps  from 
bedroom , r.  d. 

Mrs.  M.  (r.)  Miss  Lucy  Aiken,  I believe.  [Mrs.  F.  6<nes.]  My 
friend,  Miss  Crane,  recommended  you  to  me  as  a pianist  ; as  I wanted 
one  for  this  evening,  I have  called  to  ascertain  if  you  are  disengaged. 

Mer.  I’m  relieved ! 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside.]  Herbert  will  be  out.  [Aloud.]  Yes,  ma’am,  I 
have  no  engagement  for  this  evening. 

Airs.  AI.  Ah  ! that  is  lucky.  Miss  Crane  is  eloquent  about  your 
skill  and  obligingness. 

Mrs.  F.  Miss  Crane  is  very  kind,  ma’am — I am  always  eager  to  do 
my  best ; I believe  that  is  my  chief  title  to  her  praise. 

Mrs.  M.  You  are  not  quite  a stranger  to  me  Mr.  Merryweather 
has  mentioned  your  name — I think  he  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours. 

Mer.  [Aside  ] How  the  deuce  does  she  know  that  1 

Mrs.  F.  Mr.  Merry  weather  1 I think  not,  ma’am  — I have  no 
acquaintance  of  that  name. 

Mrs.  M.  [Aside.]  She  is  deceiving  me.  [ Aloud .]  Ah  ! it  is  singular 
— I am  almost  sure  he  spoke  of  you  ; you  are  certain  you  do  not  know 
him  1 

Mrs.  F.  Quite,  ma’am  ; my  acquaintances  are  very  few — I am  not 
likely  to  forget  any  of  them. 

Mrs.  M.  You  are  very  young,  Miss  Aiken — and  excuse  me,  if  I add, 
very  handsome — to  be  compelled  to  resort  to  this  mode  of  supporting 
yourself. 

Mrs.  F.  But  I am  poor — and  the  poor  must  face  many  things  that 
to  the  rich  seem  very  hard,  and  very  dangerous. 

Mrs.  M.  But  music  is  not  your  only  resource — you  embroider,  I see. 
[Takes  up  the  cap  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  has  been  working  at.]  Surely  I 
know  this  pattern  ! 

Mrs.  F.  O,  yes  I they  are  your  own  caps  ; Mrs.  Satchell,  your  maitl 
has  been  kind  enough  to  employ  me 

Mrs.  M.  You  called  at  my  house,  this  morning  ? 

Mrs.  F.  Yes. 

Mrs.  AI.  [Aside.]  A rendezvous  with  my  husband ! [Aloud.]  Did 
you  see  Mr.  Merryweather  ? 

Mrs.  F.  No,  ma’am. 


28 


VICTIMS. 


Mrs.  M.  But  music  and  embroidery  are  not  your  only  resources.  1 
see  manuscripts  here  [ Pointing  to  table,  r.]  You  are  literary. 

Mrs  F.  Oh  ! no,  no,  indeed — I sometimes  copy  manuscripts. 

Mrs.  M.  Ah  ! I often  employ  an  amanuensis.  Let  me  see  your 
handwriting.  [Turns  to  table,  r.,  and  sees  note  Merryweathek  had 
begun  Aside .]  My  husband’s  hand.  [Aloud.}  Bold,  but  rather  commer- 
cial than  feminine.  May  I ask  if  this  is  your  writing  1 

Mer.  My  note,  by  Jove  ! 

Mrs.  F.  That,  madam  1 Oh  no  ! I really  do  not  know  whose  writing 
that  is. 

Mrs.  M.  It  is  strange  ; the  ink  is  still  wet. 

Mrs.  F.  The  ink  ! [ Etnbarassed. 

Mis.  M.  Yes,  Miss  Aiken,  these  letters  have  not  been  traced  two 
minutes ! 

Mrs.  F.  Indeed,  madam,  T — 

Mrs.  M.  And  the  hand  that  traced  them  is  my  husband*  T 

Mrs.  F.  Your  husband’s  ! 

Mrs.  M.  You  see  before  you,  a fond — an  injured  wife  ! 

Mer.  Huzza  1 she’s  jealous  ! 

Mrs.  M.  The  Mr.  M-sriy  weather,  whose  very  name  was  strange  to 
you,  is  my  husband.  The  Mr.  Merry  weather,  who  wrote  these  letters, 
Miss  Aiken — [s/ioijs  parcel]  whom  you  receive  at  your  lodgings,  and 
whom  you  deny  to  his  wife  ! sp&ak  the  truth — he  has  just  left  you. 

Mer.  [r. — Coming  forward.]  No,  my  dear  ! he  is  still  here,  luckily. 

Mrs.  M.  (c.)  My  husband  ! Oh,  this  alone  was  wanting — 

Mer.  To  save  you  from  committing  an  act  of  very  grievous  injustice, 
?nd  to  prevent  my  poor  little  friend,  Lucy,  from  an  unconscious  false- 
hood. 

Mrs.  F.  [l.]  Oh,  Mr.  Langford,  do  explain — pray — 

Mrs.  M.  Langford  ! a feigned  name,  too  ! Oh,  this  is  too  cruel. 

Mer.  Ah — I forgot!  you  did  not  know  that  before  marrying  you,  I 
was  Mr.  Langford — that  by  that  name  alone,  Lucy  knew  me  ; I changed 
it  under  my  uncle’s  will  on  succeeding  to  his  fortune  and  his  business. 

Mrs.  M.  But  this  lock  of  hairl  [Holding  it  up. 

Mer.  Was  purchased  from  Lucy’s  hair-dresser,  for  one  shilling  and 
sixpence. 

Mrs.  M.  But  these  letters — [Showing  a packet. 

Mer  Were  written  four  years  ago — when  I still  had  a right  to  cor- 
respond with  an  unmarried  lady,  and  no  wife  to  look  into-my  writing- 
desk. 

Mrs.  M.  But  your  presence  here — explain  that,  sir,  if  you  can  ! 

Mer.  I came  to  see  this  young  lady’s  husband. 

Mrs.  M Her  husband  ! Then  she  is  married  1 

Mrs.  F.  Yes,  madam!  forgive  this,  the  only  deception  I have  prac- 
ticed— I used  my  maiden  name  to  obtain  work  and  lessons,  that  I 
might  spare  my  husband’s  pride,  while  I did  what  I could  to  help  him 
— we  are  very  poor. 

Mer.  There,  Emily — you  see  what  the  girl  is  whom  you  have  ven- 
tured to  suspect.  But  I will  tell  you  more  on  our  way  home,  for  it 


VICTIMS. 


29 


im?'.  not  be  in  Lucy’s  hearing.  Lucy,  you  will  come  \r*  us  to-night ; 
there’s  a dear  girl ! 

Mrs  F.  Oh,  Mr.  Langford — ■ 

Mer.  Merryweather ! 

Mrs.  F.  I beg  your  pardon  ! the  old  name  will  coni?  to  my  tongue, 
for  it  is  written  deep  in  my  heart.  Oh,  madam — if  yc  r knew  how  kind 
he  was  to  me  ever  so  long  ago,  and  so  refined  in  his  kindness,  too  1 
Mrs.  M.  Refined  ! My  husband  1 

Mrs.  F.  Yes,  no  woman  could  have  been  more  confederate.  Oh,  how 
happy  you  must  be  with  such  a husband  ! 

Mrs.  M.  [Aside ] Kind!  considerate!  my  husbanl  refined!  Can  I 
have  been  mistaken  in  him  ? 

Mer.  Never  mind  that,  Lucy — you  must  come  to  us  to-night.  Mrs. 
Merryweather,  you  will  receive  her  as  one  who  is  my  friend — who  is 
well  worthy  to  be  yours. 

Mrs.  M.  I ask  your  pardon  for  the  suspicion  that  circumstances  but 
too  naturally  excited ; here  is  my  hand. 

Mer.  Give  her  your  hand,  Lucy.  [Mrs.  Mrrryweather  and  Mrs 
Fitzherbert  shake  hands .]  And  take  mine.  [He  shakes  her  hand  ] 
Au  revoir,  Lucy  ! Come,  Emily  1 [Gives  his  arm  to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Merryweather.]  Poor  thing  ! To  think  of  her  slaving 
in  this  way.  What  a selfish  wretch  the  husband  must  be  to  suffer  it. 
I hate  him ! 

Mer.  You  can’t  think  how  entirely  I agree  with  you,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  M.  What’s  his  name  1 

Mer.  Pardon  me— that  is  Lucy’s  secret.  But  you  cannot  have  an 
idea  how  utterly  contemptible  the  man  is,  till  you  have  heard  my  story. 
I’ll  tell  it  you  on  our  way  home.  And  so  you  really  were  jealous  1 
Mrs.  M.  No! 

Mer.  Yes,  you  were  ! 

[Exeunt  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merryweather,  arm  in  arm , R.  d.  ? e. 
Mrs.  F.  But  my  secret!  they  will  betray  my  secret — and  then  dear 
Herbert  will  be  angry.  My  head  is  all  in  a whirl — I can’t  think. 
[ Pressing  her  hand  to  her  brow.]  Mr.  Langford — no,  Merryweather — 
still  the  same  kind  heart  as  ever — now  I am  going  to  cry,  like  a fool — 
I won’t  cry — yes  I will — it  will  do  me  good — I will  go  in  and  have  a 
good  cry,  beside  dear  baby.  [Exit  to  bedroom. 

Enter  Mrs.  Sharp,  r.  d.  3 e.,  with  a 'parcel  in  whity -brown  paper,  of 
the  same  size  as  the  one  containing  the  trowsers,  which  is  in  brown 
paper. 

Mrs  S.  A parcel1?  the  young  man  said  that  there  was  nothing  t« 
pay.  or  I’d  not  have  took  it  in— and  here’s  another,  [Takes  up  parcel 
with  trousers.]  I wonder  what’s  in  ’em — I declare  I could  almost  suspect 
they’re  a makin’  my  apartment  a receiving  house  for  goods  on  false 
pretence— there’s  such  a many  swindlers  about.  [Feels parcels.]  Drapery 
goods,  both  on’em.  Suppose  they  is  false  pretences.  And  suppose  I 
was  wanted  to  give  evidence,  and  me  knowing  nothing  about  ’em.  It’* 
my  dooty  to  examine  the  contents — they’re  only  pinned.  [Opens  parcel 
No.  2,  whity-brown,  and  takes  out  satin  dress.]  Ah  ! what  a lovely  satir 


30 


VICTIMS. 


— ten  shillin'  a yard,  at  least.  Oh  ! it  can’t  be  Kanestly  come  by — and 
the  other — [ Open * the  other  packet — a rap  is  heard , l.  d.J  Oh,  it’s  Mr. 
Fitzherbert.  Oh,  Lord  a'  mercy — if  he  catches  me.  hastily  putt 

up  parcels,  changing  the  covers.]  I declare  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth. 

Enter  Butterby  and  Fitzherbert,  l.  d. 

Fitz.  Boy  left  a parcel,  Mrs.  Sharp] 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  sir — I was  just  bringing  it  up.  [Aside.]  It  are  false 
pretences.  [Exit,  r.  d.  3 e. 

Butter.  There  it  is,  by  Jove — a stupendous  success,  my  boy — I feel  it 
is  stu-pendous — Minerva’s  done — clear  as  a whistle — knocked  over,  by 
Jove. 

Fitz.  Yes — she’s  more  than  woman  if  she  can  resist  satin. 

Butter.  And  my  verses — that  is — my  idea,  and  your  words.  Come, 
let’s  finish  ’em,  at  once,  while  we’re  in  the  vein. 

Fitz.  And  dispatch  parcel  and  verses  together,  to  the  house — I’ve 
only  the  last  couplet  to  finish.  [/Site  at  a table , k. 

Butter.  Eh  I I’ve  an  idea — by  Jove,  I’ve  such  an  idea  ! We’re  all 
to  be  at  Mrs.  Merryweather’s  this  evening — the  whole  set ; we’ll  send 
it  there,  that  Minerva  may  receive  it,  bang — before  everybody.  It  will 
be  a hit — a tremendous  hit — a blaze  of  triumph,  by  Jove. 

Fitz.  Especially  when  accompanied  by  your  verses — here  they  are. 

[Gives  them. 

Butter.  [Reading  to  himself]  Brilliant,  by  Jove — capital,  by  Heav- 
ens— Lempriere  couldn’t  beat  ’em — only — I say,  my  boy,  you’ve  called 
me  Joshua. 

Fitz.  Well  ; it’s  your  name,  isn’t  it  I and  a highly  respectable  one — 
it  exhales  an  odor  of  Quaker  sobriety,  perfectly  refreshing. 

Butter.  Yes — it’s  respectable  as  you  say — but  drab — decidedly  drab- 
in  fact  infernally  Ebenezerish.  Suppose  you  called  me — Chloe — no, 
that’s  a woman’s  name. 

Fitz.  Damon — ah — eh  1 

Butter.  Yes — Damon — and  you’ll  be  Pythias.  By  Jove,  that’s  the 
very  name  I had  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue. 

Fitz.  And  now  to  dispatch  our  Mercury  with  Damon’s  peace-offering. 

[Rings  bell  on  table. 

Butter.  [Reads  last.line.]  Delicious,  by  Jove — delicious. 

Enter  Mary,  r.  d.  3 e. 

Fitz.  Oh,  Mary,  carry  these  parcels  directly — 

Butter.  The  brown  paper  one  to  Mr.  Lamkins,  1 1 Conduit  Street, 
and  the  whity-broWn  to  Mrs.  Merryweather’s,  The  Acacias,  Regent’s 
Park — you  understand — stop,  I’ll  put  on  the  addresses,  or  she  may 
make  a mistake.  [ Writes  addresses. 

I Exit  Mary,  with  parcels , r.  d.  3 & 

Butter.  There,  my  boy,  I think  I’ve  done  the  trick  now.  Egad,  a fel- 
low doesn’t  know  how  much  poetry  there’s  in  him  till  he  tries. 

FUz.  Nor  how  little.  [Exit  l.  d 

Butter.  [Repeating.]  “ And  when  you  wear  it,  think  of  me.”  By 
love!  It’s  stunning.  [Exit  l d 


end  OF  ACT  II. 


VICTIMS. 


31 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Entrance  Hall  to  the  Acacias.  (1«£  Grooves.) 

Skimmer  discovered , l.  1 e.,  book  in  hand , receiving  and  announcing 
Guests  as  they  enter , l.  1 e.,  Female  Servant  at  d.  in  l.  f.,  taking 
hats , cloaks,  <f-c.  Carfuffle  at  r.  1 e.,  announcing  Guests  as  they 
exit , r.  1 e. 

Enter  elderly  Lady  and  her  Daughter,  l.  1 e. 

Skim.  [ Looking  at  book.']  Missis  and  Miss  Rigaud.  [They  cross  r. 
Car.  [In  a sonorous  tone.]  Mrs.  and  Miss  Wriggle  ! 

Elderly  Lady.  [ With  dignity  ] Ri gaud,  sir ! 

Car  Mm.  and  Mrs.  Wriggle!  oh  ! [They  pass  in,  r.  1 e. 

Enter  Hornblower,  l.  1 e.,  crosses  to  c. 

Skim.  Mr.  Hornblower ! eh  ! [Looking  off.]  I beg  your  pardon,  the 
cabman  is  waiting,  sir! 

Horn.  Confound  the  fellow  ! his  fare  is  one  and  six,  and  I shall  give 
no  more.  [Exit  Skimmer,  l.  1 e. 

Car.  Mr.  ’Orn — now,  James! 

Re-enter  Skimmer,  l.  1 e. 

Skim.  Sir! 

Horn.  [ Who  has  just  flung  open  his  coat.]  Well! 

Skim.  He  won’t  take  it,  sir — he  says,  with  his  compliments,  you 
ought  to  be  a threepenny  buster,  ’cos  you  can’t  afford  cabs,  Mr.  Horn- 
blower ! 

Horn.  Confound  his  impudence!  Here’s  sixpence  [Gives  it],  and 
takes  his  number.  [Exit  Skimmer  l.  1 e.]  I’ll  have  an  article  on  the 
extortion  of  these  infernal  villains  in  next  week’s  number. 

[Crosses  to  r. 

Car.  Mr.  ’Ornblower ! [He  passes  in  r.  1 e 

Re-enter  Skimmer,  l.  1 e. 

Enter  a Foreigner,  l.  1 e. 

Skim  Name,  sir,  please  1 

Foreigner.  Der  Kaiserlicher  Koniglicher  ober  Kapell  meister — und 
Kammerath — Diidelsackshonhausen ! 

Skim.  Goodness  gracious  ! I beg  pardon,  sir,  I didn’t  quite  catch  it. 
Foreigner.  [ Repeats  name. 

Skim.  No,  I never  can  ! Mosoo  Diddle  sacks  and  Shoosen. 

[Foreigner  crosses  to  c. 

Car.  Mosoo  little  socks  and  shoes  on ! 

Foreigner.  Ach  Gott6  ! nean  — nein  — “Der  Kaiserlicher — Konig 
Fcher — ” 

Car.  [ Majestically .]  Pass  on,  sir,  you  are  announced! 

[Foreigner  passes  in  r 1 r. 
Enter  another  Foreigner,  l 1 e. 

Foreigner.  Signoi  Scappavia  di  Mongibelli. 


32 


VICTIMS. 


Skim.  Signor  Skipper  via  de  mangy  belly.  [Foreigner  crosses  'o  a 

Car.  Bother  these  foreigners ! Signor  Chippaway  de  Stranger  Bel 
lows.  [Foreigner  passes  in  r.  I k 

Enter  Rowley,  l.  1 e.,  he  is  going  in  without  being  announced. 

Skim.  Beg  pardon,  what  name,  sir? 

Rowley.  Rowley — John  Rowley — 

Skim.  [ Looking  at  book.]  Beg  pardon,  sir — but  you  are  not  on  mis- 
sus’s list. 

Rowley.  No,  but  I’m  on  master’s. 

Skim.  We’re  to  go  by  missus’s  orders. 

Rowley.  You  shall  go  by  master’s  orders,  if  you  attempt  to  stop  me. 

Car.  Now,  James,  what  is  it? 

Skim.  A gent  as  arn’t  on  my  list,  Mr  Carfuffle. 

Rowley.  Come,  let  me  pass,  will  you — you  flunkies  ? 

Car.  Flunkies! 

Enter  Merryweather,  r.  1 e. 

Merry.  What’s  the  matter?  Ah,  Rowley  my  boy  ! [Rowley  crosses 
to  him.]  Delighted  you’re  arrived  at  last — come  in  ! 

Skim.  Beg  pardon,  sir — the  gentleman’s  name  arn’t  down  in  my 
book. 

Merry.  Confound  your  book,  sir  ! I’m  master  here  ! came  along  old 
fellow  ! 

Car.  [ With  dignity.]  I beg  your  parding,  sir — I beg  your  parding— 
but  this  gent  have  called  me  a flunkey1 ! 

Merry.  And  what  the  devil  are  you  but  a flunkey  ? 

Car.  [Recoiling  paralyzed.]  Well! 

Rowley.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! a good  beginning,  my  boy  ! Keep  it  up,  and 
you’ll  be  a man  again,  and  not  a woman’s  plaything. 

[ They  pass  in  r.  1 e. 

Skim.  (l.  c.)  Mr.  Carfuffle.  did  you  hear  that  ? 

Car.  (r.  c.)  Yes,  James,  with  amazement ; master’s  a getting  his 
head  out  of  the  collar — 

Skim.  “I’m  master  here!”  Well,  if  ever  I thought  to  hear  master 
use  language  like  that.- 

Car.  Mark  my  words,  James — there’s  a conwulsion  a-hatching  in 
this  family. 

Skim.  Well,  I did  think  master  held  his  head  up  uncommon,  as  he 
came  in  with  missus  this  afternoon.  Mr.  Carfuffle,  p’raps  we  ’ad 
better  be  a little  more  respectful  to  master. 

Car.  P’raps — Door,  James  ! [They  each  retire  to  their  places. 

Enter  Butterby  and  Fitzherbert,  l.  1 e.,  and  cross  to  c. 

Butter.  By  Jove,  Fitz,  I’m  quite  agitated — Miss  Crane  come,  Jamea  ? 

Skim.  No,  sir,  not  yet. 

Butter.  Don’t  leave  me,  Fitz,  till  I get  off  my  goloshes. 

Fitz.  Hang  your  goloshes  ! [Going  R 

Skim.  [Announcing.]  Mr.  Fitzherbert  ! 

Car.  Mr.  Fitzherbert  ! [He  passes  in  a.  1 I 

Butter.  [Struggling  with  his  golosh  on  one  foot.]  Confound  the 
things ! 


VICTIMS. 


$3 

Enter  Mrs.  Fitzhkrbert  in  bonnet  and  shawl , l.  I k, 

Skim.  Now,  young  woman,  what  do  you  want? 

Mrs.  F.  Take  my  card  in,  please,  to  Mrs.  Merry  weather. 

Exit  Skimmer,  r.  1 e. 

Butter.  [At  the  voice , looks  up,  aside .]  The  undulating  little  milliner, 
by  Jove.  Ah,  my  dear — delighted  to  see  you  ! De- lighted. 

Mrs.  F.  Sir  ! [ Aside .]  It’s  that  silly  man  ! 

Butter.  You  gave  me  the  slip  this  morning — but  now  you  must  tell 
mu .3  your  romantic  name,  and  your  mysterious  address — you  must,  by 
Jove  1 

Mrs.  F.  Sir,  if  you  say  another  word  to  me,  I’ll  complain  to  Mrs. 
Merry  weather ; [Crosses  r.]  as  you  are  coward  enough  to  insult  me,  I 
am  sure  you  will  fear  to  offend  her  ! 

Enter  Skimmer  from  r.  1 e. 

Skim.  That  way.  miss,  please,  [Points  r.  and  crosses  to  l.  1.  e. 

[Mrs.  Fitzherbkrt  passes  in  r.  1 a. 

Butter.  ( l . c.)  James,  do  you  know  that  young  person  1 

Skim.  No,  sir — but  here’s  the  card  she  giv’  me. 

Butter.  And  which  you’ll  instantly  give  me.  [Skimmer  does  so  ] 
That’s  it — here’s  a shilling.  [Gives  him  one. 

Skim.  Thank  you,  sir.  [Retires  to  his  situation , l.  1 e. 

Butter.  [Reads  ] “ Mrs  Lucy  Aiken,  3 Harriet  Street,  Belgrave 
Square.”  Fitz’s  street,  by  Jove  1 Fitz’s  number,  too  ! What  a re- 
markable coincidence — re-markable  ! I must  follow  this  up  in  the 
“ veni-vidi-vici”  style — by  Jove  ! 

Enter  Curdle  with  umbrella , l.  1 e 

Skim  Mr  Curdle  ! 

Butter.  [ Aside .]  The  old  Multiplication  table.  [Aloud.]  Ah,  Curdle, 
come  to  enliven  us  with  a few  figures,  eh  1 

Curdle.  [With  a Scotch  accent]  Yes — I’m  gay  gleg  at  a quadrille, 
Mr.  Butterby.  Here,  Jems, , ye’ll  gie  yon  cabman  saxpence.  [Gives 
Skimmer  money,  he  exits  l.  1 e.]  It’s  a comfort  to  hae  got  rid  of  the 
awfu’  imposition  o’  yon  twopence,  Mr  Butterby. 

Butter.  Hideous,  by  Jove— hideous  ! I always  gave  them  a shilling. 

Re-enter  Skimmer  l.  1 e. 

Skim.  Cabman  looked  very  hard  at  it  sir,  but  he  says  he  don't  know 
what  it  is. 

Curdle.  The  ignorance  o’  the  lower  orders  in  this  country  is  crass — 
perfectly  crass.  Ye’ll  tell  him  it’s  twa  coins  of  the  realm  called  three- 
pennies — first  minted  under  Edward  the  Secondhand  revived  under  a 
late  enlightened  admeenestration. 

» Skim.  He  says  it's  over  a mile,  sir. 

Curdle.  Na,  na ; it’s  a mile  and  twenty-sax  feet  to  the  “ Acacias,” 
from  the  third  hoose  in  Langham  Place — T’ve  measured  it  wi’  my  pedo- 
meter— ye  ken,  Mr.  Butterby.  No — I took  him  up  at  the  fifth  hoose, 
and  the  hooses  havin’  a frontage  of  thretty  feet — twice  thretty’s  saxty, 
and  twenty-sax  from  saxty  leaves  just  thretty-four  feet  less  than  the 
legal  distance  o’  ane  mile,  and  so  ye’ll  tell  him,  Jems 

[Exit  Skimmer,  l.  1 & 


34 


VICTIMS. 


Numerical  exactitude's  everything  in  this  commercial  country,  Mn 
Butterby. 

Butter.  My  motto  is.  d n the  coppers. 

Curdle.  Oh,  yon’s  misplaced  profanity,  mon — if  ye  begin  wi’  damn- 
ing the  coppers,  ye’ll  never  ha’  a proper  respec’  for  coin  o’  a higher 
metallic  denomination.  But  wha’s  this  1 [Looking  of  l.  1 e]  Eh1 
it’s  Miss  Crane,  and  yon  puir  creature,  Muddlemist. 

Re-enter  Skimmer,  l.  1 e. 

Butter.  Minerva,  by  Jove  ! Butterby,  my  boy — be  firm. 

Enter  Miss  Crank  and  Muddlemist,  l.  1 e. 

Skim.  Miss  Crane — Mr.  Muddlemist  1 

[Butterby  meets  Miss  Crane’s  eye — she  draws  up  with  a repellent 
dignity. 

Miss  C.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Curdle — I am  glad  we  are  to  have  the 
advantage  of  your  society  this  evening. 

Butter.  The  advantage  is  on  our — 

Miss  C.  [In  an  icy  tone.]  Sir  ! Your  arm,  Mr.  Muddlemist,  to  enter 
the  reception  room.  [Muddlemist  gives  his  arm,  and  they  cross  to  r 

Car.  Miss  Crane — Mr.  Muddlemist ! 

[Miss  Crane  turns  and  gives  Butterby  a severe  look,  and  passes 
in,  k.  1 e.  with  Muddlemist. 

Butter.  Cut,  by  Jove — as  clean  as  a turnip. 

Curdle.  Odd,  mon,  yon  was  an  awfu’  look  Miss  Crane  gave  ye— I 
thocht  ye  were  an  accepted  suitor. 

Butter.  I was  this  morning. 

Curdle.  And  ye’ve  quarrelled  ! I’m  glad  to  hear  that,  for  ye’re  no’ 
in  a position  to  add  an  increment  to  the  population  without  contraven- 
ing a’  the  doctrines  o’  the  great  Malthus. 

Butter.  What  the  deuce  has  the  great  Malthus  to  do  with  my  in- 
creasing the  population,  or  you  either  1 

Curdle.  You  see,  ye’re  just  an  unproductive  laborer,  Mr.  Butterby, 
and  you’ve  no’  that  capital — either  fixed  or  floatin' — that  justifies  you 
in  takin’  a wife,  accordin’  to  the  doctrines  o’  James  M’Culloch, 

Butter.  Hang  James  M’Culloch!  I shall  take  as  many  wives  as  1 
please,  sir,  without  asking  your  leave,  sir,  or  that  of  any  other  infernal, 
calculating,  figure-grinding,  blue-book-cramming  political  economist. 

Curdle.  Weel,  weel,  Mr.  Butterby,  ye  see  demand  produce? 
supply — 

Butter.  Then  just  wait  till  I demand  advice  before  you  supply  it,  Mr. 
Curdle.  [Aside.]  There,  I think  I’ve  sold  him  in  the  cheapest  market 

[Going,  r.  1 e. 

Car.  [Announcing  ] Mr  Butterby  1 [T  utterby  passes  in,  r.  1 e 

Curdle.  So.  he’s  aflf  wi’  Miss  Crane — I see  na’  reason  why  I should 
na’  be  on  wi’  her  mysel’ : she’s  fond  o’  feegures,  and  mine’s  no’  that 
bad.  And  I’m  fond  o’  feegures.  too,  and  she's  got  a pretty  ane  in  the 
three-per-cents  1 Sae,  puttin’  our  twa  feegures  thegether,  it  may  com# 
to  something.  [Going,  r.  1 * 

Car.  [Announcing.]  Mr.  Curdle  ! [Curdle  passes  in  a.  1 B 

Mean  party  that,  James  ! 


VICTIMS. 


85 


Skim.  Scaly  ! 

Gar.  Veryl  [ Exeunt  Carfuffle,  r.  1 e.,  Skimmer,  t.  1 e. 

Scene  II. — Drawing  Room  at  the  Acacias , brilliantly  lighted  ind  ele- 
gantly furnished — Conservatory  beyond,  with  fountain  playing  in  c., 

arched  entrances  r.  and  L. 

Company  promenading  in  the  background — others  grouped  about  the 

stage. 

Rowley  and  Merryweather  come  down  c. 

Row.  (r  ) And  these  are  all  remarkable  people,  ehl 

Mer.  (r.  c.)  Yes,  more  or  less!  the  rooms  are  a perfect  encyclo- 
paedia— a British  Museum  of  celebrities. 

Row.  A good  deal  like  the  one  in  Great  Russell  street,  with  abund- 
ance of  idols,  rich  stores  of  learning  that  nobody  wants,  a good  many 
lions  stuffed  at  your  expense,  and  venerable  remains  of  antiquity  that 
once  were  goddesses. 

Mer.  You  see  that  pale  man  with  the  bumpy  forehead*  and  strawy 
hair!  [ Pointing  off , l.]  That’s  Muddlemist,  the  great  metaphysician. 
Hornblower  declares  he’s  demolished  Kant. 

Row.  What  the  newspapers  would  call  a most  determined  act  of 
self-destruction. 

Mer.  You  know  Hornblower,  of  course — the  great  Hornblower  they 
call  him  here — I suppose  from  the  wonderful  way  he  blows  his  own 
trumpet,  and  the  trumpets  of  all  his  clique,  in  the  “ Weekly  Torch,"  to 
which  he  supplies  the  light,  and  does  his  best  to  snuff  out  every  other 
luminary.  [ They  appear,  I..]  He’s  coming  this  way,  talking  to 
Muddlemist.  [ Gets  r 

Enter  Hornblower  down  l , talking  to  Muddlemist. 

Horn.  Don’t  tell  me,  sir  ; it’s  a settled  question.  The  Hegelian 
School  has  smashed  the  positive  philosophy. 

Row.  [To  Merryweaher]  I should  think  Hornblower  had  picked 
up  the  pieces,  and  put  them  together  for  his  own  use. 

Mud.  That  is,  taking  as  our  stand-point  the  subjective  “ me,”  and 
confining  our  survey  to  the  notionol  cycle,  the  field  of  gnosis  as  op 
posed  to  the  objective  and  phenomenal  universe — it  may  be  so  ; but 
you  will  pardon  my  remarking  this  is  not  a clear  view  of  the  subject. 

[Exeunt,  l.  u.  e. 

Curdle  and  Miss  Crane  enter  conservatory  from  l. 

Row.  Well,  I think  it  is  not,  exactly.  But  who  are  that  couple 
talking  so  earnestly  ! [Pointing  c. 

Mer.  That’s  the  great  political  economist.  Curdle,  with  the  strong- 
minded  Miss  Crane,  whose  mission  it  is  to  emancipate  women  at  once 
from  their  prejudices  and  their  petticoats. 

Row.  And  invest  them,  I suppose,  with  our  intellect  and  inexpres- 
sibles. And  that  young  fellow  wrapped  in  solitude  and  self-import- 
ance on  the  sofa  ? [Pointing  l. 

Mer.  Confound  him — that’s  Fitzherbert..  To  think  he  should  have 
had  the  coolness  to  accept  my  wife’s  invitation. 


VICTIMS. 


M 

Koto.  Pooh  ! he’ll  accept  anything — bills  especially. 

Mer.  When  he  must  have  known  he  would  have  to  meet  me. 

Row.  He  knew  he’d  have  to  meet  his  bills,  too. 

Mer.  However,  I’ve  prepared  a lesson  for  him. 

Row.  I never  saw  a young  gentleman  who  seemed  to  want  one 
more. 

Enter  Butte rby,  l.  3 f 

Bvtter.  (l.)  How  do,  Merry  weather  ? [Gives  him  two  fingers  supers 
ciliously.j  Brilliant  soiree — shows  Mrs.  Merry  weather’s  usual  taste. 
[Aside  to  him .]  I say,  you  must  explain  that  bouquet  business  to  Miss 
Crane — my  future  happiness  is  at  stake.  Look  at  that  prig  of  a Scotch 
economist  whispering  to  her,  clenching  what  he  would  call  the  intimate 
relation  of  interest  and  capital.  You  really  must  explain 

Mer.  (c  ) I will  if  I can  ; but  she’s  awfully  irritated  with  you. 

Butter.  I give  you  my  honor  she  has  no  cause.  I may  be  volage, 
gallant — I may  have  had  my  successes  with  the  sex — but  on  this 
occasion  I ain  immaculate. 

Mer.  But  why  not  make  your  own  peace  with  her? 

Butter.  By  Jove  ! there’s  a dignity  about  that  woman,  sir,  that  quells 
my  natural  audacity.  Jos.  Butterby  feels  like  a cypher  in  her  presence, 
he  does,  by  Jove!  You’ve  not  heard  of  a parcel  being  left  here  for 
her,  have  you  ? 

Mer.  No. 

Butter.  Well,  if  one  should  come,  don’t  let  ’em  give  it  to  her  till  I’m 
there — promise  me  ; and,  I say,  get  Mrs.  Merry  weather  to  make  my 
peace,  will  you  ? 

Mer.  I get  my  wife  to  do  anything  ! Hadn’t  you  better  apply  to 
your  friend,  Fitzherbert? 

Butter.  A good  idea  ! of  course  I had.  Fitz  will  manage  it  at  once. 
Confound  that  arithmetical  Scotchman  ! he’s  dividing  us  by  two. 

[Exit,  l.  3 i. 

Rowley.  A vivacious  style  of  man,  that ; is  he  a remarkable  person, 
t®o? 

Merry.  Only  the  appendage  of  one  ; he’s  a barnacle  that  attaches 
himself  to  the  keel  of  a reputation,  and  flatters  himself  he's  part  of  the 
ship.  He’s  Fitzherbert’s  toady-royal.  [Looking  off,  r]  But  here  comes 
ir.y  wife.  [Gcte  to  r.  corner  with  Rowley. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merryweather,  r..  followed  hy  the  Two  Foreigners  and 

Two  Ladies  ; Miss  Crane  and  Curdle  come  from  conservatory,  But- 
terby, Fitzherbert,  Hornblower,  and  Muddlemist,  from  l.,  other 

Guests  follow,  and  all  surround  Mrs.  Merryweather. 

Rowley.  How  they  all  flock  about  her!  And  here  are  you,  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house,  pushed  into  a corner  with  no  more  cerenmny  than  an 
old  piece  of  furniture. 

Merry.  But  like  other  old  pieces  of  furniture,  there  may  be  more  in 
jne  than  anybody  imagines.  I shall  have  my  revenge  yet. 

[Mrs.  Merryweather  comes  forward  with  Fitzherbert,  apd  tht 
Other  Characters,  Butterby  keens  rather  hack. 


TICTiMS.  87 

Mrs . M.  Nay,  nay,  you  really  are  too  flattering ; it  is  my  duty,  as  it 
is  my  pleasure,  to  do  the  honors  of  my  house  to  my  friends,  so  far  as 
my  poor  strength  and  spirits  will  allow  me 

[Gentlemen  place  chairs  and  they  all  sit. 

Muddle.  What  I especially  admire  in  your  soirees  is  the  aesthetic 
element. 

Rowley.  [ Going  to  him.]  May  I ask  what  that  is,  sir? 

[ All  look  surprised 

Mrs.  M.  I beg  your  pardon — Mr. — 1 

Merry.  Rowley — a friend  of  mine,  my  dear. 

Omnes.  Oh  ! [ They  turn  away. 

Muddle.  You  asked  for  a definition  of  the  term  aesthetic,  sir? 

Butter.  Confound  him  ! now  were  in  for  a screed  of  transcendental- 
ism, as  long  and  as  slow  as  an  excursion  train. 

Muddle.  The  word  takes  its  rise  in  Germany,  and  has  its  roots  in 
the  Platonic  nomenclature — in  the  objective  hypothesis  of  the  subjective 
“ me.” 

Horn.  [ Interrupting .]  Now,  there  you  come  upon  that  fatal  dualism 
of  Fichte’s,  Muddlemist ; why  can’t  you  keep  on  the  plain  ground  of 
common  sense  ? 

Rowley.  Just  what  I was  asking  myself. 

Horn.  [With  self-importance .]  The  thing  lies  in  a nut-shell.  JEsthe- 
tic  is  that  field  of  the  intellectual  in  which  the  mind  laboring  to  express 
the  inward  by  the  outward,  symbolizes  its  spiritual  conceptions  in 
plastic  form.  I comprehend  much  in  the  term. 

Rowley.  Hang  me  if  I comprehend  anything. 

Horn.  Sir  ! 

Miss  C.  Oh — it’s  a friend  of  Mr.  Merry  weather’s. 

Fitz.  Nay,  Hornblower — [Rising. 

Butter.  Hush!  now  Fitz* — [To  the  Company.]  Pray  hush.  You  were 
remarking,  Fitz— 

Fitz.  Why  vail  the  glowing  glory  of  the  real  in  the  floating  cloud 
drapery  of  the  metaphysical? 

Rowley.  I’m  sure  T don’t  know  any  reason. 

Fitz.  Why  dim  the  divine  eye  of  the  painter  as  he  fixes  the  rainbow 
on  his  canvas — why  cramp  the  creative  hand  of  the  sculptor  as  it  puts 
breath  into  the  marble,  by  the  fetters  of  a definition?  The  soul  of  the 
aesthetic  is  the  beautiful — the  soul  of  the  beautiful  is  the  true— the  soul 
of  the  true  is  the  ideal 

Rowley.  Egad!  they  fit  into  one  another  like  a nest  of  Chinese 
boxes. 

Omnes.  Beautiful ! 

Butter.  Hush— pray — hush — he’s  not  done  yet. 

Fitz.  I have  done.  [Sits  again. 

Miss  C.  Flow  imaginatively — how  poetically — how  lucidly  ex 
plained  ! 

Butter.  Lucid  ! Yes,  by  Heavens,  that’s  the  precise  word. 

Miss  G.  Sir ! 

[SAc  gives  him  a look — he  draws  back  his  chair  affrighted 

Curdle.  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  ve’ve  a great  power  o’ exposition,  sir ; ye 


88 


YICTIMS. 


only  need  training  in  the  exacter  sciences  to  be  ane  o’  the  lights  c'  the 
age. 

Butter.  Pooh ! Sir,  he  is  one  of  the  lights  of  the  age.  It’s  electric 
light,  by  Jove. 

Horn.  Yes — our  friend  Fitzherbert  has  won  an  immortality  at  a time 
of  life  when  most  men  have  barely  achieved  a competence. 

Merry.  Which  is  not  a bad  foundation  to  stand  upon,  Mr.  Horn- 
bl  >wer. 

Horn.  I was  prepared  for  the  remark  from  you,  sir. 

Muddle.  We  are  aware  Mr.  Merry  weather  dwells  entirely  in  the  re- 
gion of  the  phenomenal — 

Rowley.  1 beg  your  pardon,  sir,  he  dwells  in  the  Regent’s  Park,  and 
this  is  his  house,  though  the  fact  seems  very  generally  over- 
looked. 

Horn.  Sir — 

Mrs.  M.  Pray,  Mr.  Hornblower — Mr.  Rowley  is  a friend  of  Mr.  Mer- 
ryweather’s — as  such,  he  is  privileged  to  ridicule  my  tastes  and  my 
friends. 

Merry.  [Aside.]  Hang  it ! Rowley’s  going  too  fast. 

Miss  O.  It  is  the  fate  of  our  sex. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes  ; men  assume  airs  of  superiority  to  us,  and  yet  what  is 
the  courage  and  power  of  man  to  the  heroism,  the  patient  endurance, 
the  active,  self-denying,  unselfish  devotion  of  women  1 

Miss  C.  What  indeed  I [Fitzhkrbert  rises. 

Butter.  Hush  ! Fitz  is  going  to  say  something,  [ All  look  at  Fitz- 
herbert.— a pause — he  sits  down  again.]  Oh,  I beg  your  pardon — I 
thought  he  was. 

Curdle.  It’s  a fac’  that  comparing  the  relative  number  of  the 
sexes — 

Fitz.  For  mercy’s  sake,  Curdle,  spare  us  those  dreadful  figures  — 
Pray  continue,  Mrs.  Merry  weather  ; you  were  praising  the  devotedness 
of  woman. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh  ! had  you  but  seen  the  example  of  it  which  I have  seen 
to-day — 

Miss  C ■ Pray  tell  us. 

Mrs.  M.  Imagine,  then,  a woman,  young,  beautiful,  accomplished^ 
married  to  a man  too  idle  to  turn  his  powers  to  account — too  haughty 
to  allow  his  wife  to  put  her  accomplishments  to  profit — but  not  too 
proud  to  incur  debts  which  he  cannot  pay. 

Fitz.  Oh,  mean  and  ignoble  1 

Mrs.  M.  Conceive  this  young  wife  toiling  in  secret  to  procure  for 
this  husband  means  to  indulge  his  costly  tastes,  and  luxurious  appetites 
—employing  her  lonely  nights — for  he  is  absent  at  his  pleasures — to 
»arn  that  paltry  pittance  with  which  the  selfish  rich  reward  the  vigils 
of  the  poor — 

Fitz.  Oh,  humanity — humanity  ! 

Rowley.  I should  say — oh,  m-humanity. 

Curdle.  But  ye  see,  the  cost  o’  labor  is  no’  that  arbitary. 

Butter.  Silence,  Mr.  Curdle  ! I insist  upon  it! 

Mrs.  M.  For  such  a husband,  this  angel  wife  sits  at  her  needle  ’till 


TICTIM8. 


39 


early  morning — braves  the  inclemency  of  the  weather  in  carrying  home 
her  work — the  impertinence  of  her  employer’s  menials — the  insults  of 
profligate  men — men,  gentlemen — 

Fitz.  Oh.  there  is  no  man  so  brutual. 

Butter.  Impossible  ! — such  ruffians  are  fabulous  1 

Mrs.  M.  And  through  all  this,  not  one  murmur,  not  one  regret  ; but 
the  tenderness  of  an  angel,  the  heroism  of  a martyr,  the  self-denial  of  a 
saint. 

Fitz.  Oh!  that  such  a being  had  fallen  to  my  lot ; but  this  paragon 
is  a creature  of  your  imagination,  so  fertile  in  images  of  purity  and  self- 
devotion. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  I have  described — a real  woman. 

Miss  0.  We  are  all  such  women— that  is — we  should  be,  under 
similar  circumstances. 

Rowley.  [ Aside .]  I shouldn’t  like  to  give  you  the  chance. 

Mrs.  M.  Nay,  nay,  you  shall  all  see  this  sweet  creature,  you  shall  all 
know  her,  in  this  house,  this  very  night. 

All.  [ Rising ] To-night. 

Fitz.  We  will  bow  the  knee  to  her — we  will  place  around  her  brow, 
pale  with  watching,  the  aureole  of  martrydom. 

[ All  but  Fitzherbert  and  Butterby  go  up  c. 

Mrs.  M.  I will  prepare  her  for  the  ovation.  \Exit  R.  u.  e. 

Enter  Skimmer,  l.  e.,  approaches  Butterby  and  whispers  in  his  ear — 
then  exits  l.  u.  e. 

Butter.  I say.  Fitz,  the  parcel’s  come — now  for  it.  And  I say,  my 
boy,  only  think.  I’ve  seen  the  little  milliner — I’ve  got  her  card. 

Fitz.  What  the  devil’s  that  to  me  ! 

Butter.  Why  there’s  a coincidence — she  lives  in  your  street — the 
same  number — here’s  her  card.  Oh,  we’re  hand  and  glove  together — 
I’ve  done  the  business,  my  boy  ! — by  Jove  ! I have — floored  her  like 
a nine-pin.  But  here’s  the  parcel — now  for  it ! 

[Fitzherbert  takes  the  card  carelessly. 

QUESTS.  GUESTS.  GUESTS. 

Rowley.  Merry.  Mudd.  Curd  Miss  C.  Horn  Fitz.  Butter. 

r.  c.  L 

Skimmer  comes  from  l.  u.  e.,  with  parcel — crosses  and  gives  it  to  Miss 
Crane. 

Skim.  A parcel,  ma’am,  for  Miss  Crane,  to  be  delivered  immediately. 

{Exit,  l 

Miss  C.  For  me — what  can  it  be  I 

Butter.  [ Aside  to  Fitzherbert.]  Back  me  up.  my  boy  ! 1 feel  like  a 
stoker  going  to  sit  down  on  a safety  valve.  Don’t  loose  the  card  though. 

[ Goes  up  towards  Miss  Crank. 

Fitz.  Confound  the  card — {Looks  atit.~\  What’s  this  1 “ Lucy  Aiken  !” 
— my  wife’s  maiden  name  ! Has  he  dared — [ Stands  perplexed. 

Butter.  {To  Miss  Crane,  who  is  coming  down , and  trying  to  unfasten 
the  par  cel.  ] One  moment — hear  me — before  you  open  that  parcel  ; Mr. 
Merry  weather  has  explained  to  you  the  error  of  this  morning — can  you 
•Mil  bear  malice  ; 


VICTIMS. 


:40 

Miss  t 7.  Suspicion  once  aroused,  sir,  is  not  easy  to  appease.  It  is 
true  Mr.  Merry  weather  has  convinced  me  there  was  a mistake. 

Batter.  Oh  ! blessed  words  ! Then  the  work  that  his  explanation 
has  begun,  let  this,  my  peace-offering,  firiish — 

Miss  C.  Your  peace-offering  1 

Butter.  Yes  ; a humble  tribute  which  devoted  affection  lays  at  the 
shrine  of  loveliness.  Listen  to  my  votive  song — 

[All  gather  and  listen , and  Butterby  reads 

GUESTS.  GUESTS.  TWO  LADIES.  GUESTS.  GUESTS. 

Merry.  Rowley.  Curdle.  Miss  C.  Butter.  Horn.  Muddle 
r . c.  l 

“ To  Minerva— -with  a dress. 

“ In  sudden  wrath  Minerva  frowned — ” 

Need  I say  who  is  Minerva  1 

“And  Damon  sank  as  ’neath  a spell ! — ” 

Who  Damon  is,  is  obvious. 

“That  frown  divine  on  all  around 
Sank,  blighting,  whereso’er  it  fell. 

“ His  angry  goddess  to  appease, 

Sad  Damon  sought  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

Some  charms  e’en  goddesses  can  please — 

May  Damon  hope  he’s  found  one  here  ?” 

That  is  in  this  parcel. 

“ Then  take,  great  goddess,  where  you  sit, — ” 

In  point  of  fact,  you  ain’t  sitting,  but  the  posture  is  figurative — 

“ The  gift  he  proffers  on  his  knee — [Kneels 

To  female  empire  tribute  fit, 

And  when  you  wear  it,  think  of  me.” 

[He  opens  the  parcel , and  takes  out  pair  of  trousers,  then  starts 
astounded  and  lets  them  fall  at  his  feet. 

Miss  C.  Oh  1 this  is  too  much  ! 

[Screams  and  faints  in  ladies’  arms — agitation — Rowlkt  and 
Merry  weather  burst  into  laughter. 

Butter.  Those  d — d lavender  kerseymeres,  by  Jingo  1 
Curdle.  She’s  off1  she's  fainted  1 she’s  a murdered  woman  ! 

Horn.  Carry  her  into  the  air  ! This  a manly  revenge,  Mr.  Butterby  t 
[They  all  but  Fitzherbert  and  Butterby,  retire  vjith  Miss  Crane, 
through  conservatory , o , and  off  r. 

Butter.  But,  Minerva  ! Hornblower  1 Mr.  Merryweather  ! Oh  ! by 
Jove  ! here’s  a victim  to  appearances!  Fitz,  you’ll  stand  by  me  at  thi« 
fearful  crisis  1 

Fitz.  I have  an  account  of  my  own  to  settle  with  you,  sir. 

Butter.  You,  Fitz?  By  Jove!  here’s  another  crisis. 

Fitz.  From  whom  did  you  get  that  card  1 


VICTIMS. 


41 


Butler.  From  the  little  milliner,  I tell  you,  who  must  heneefoAh  bo 
my  only  consolation. 

Fitz.  No  fooling,  sir  ! Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  obtained  this 
card  from  the  lady  whose  name  it  bears  1 

Butter.  Certainly. 

Fitz.  By  force,  then  'l 

Butter  Force  ! pooh  1 nothing  of  the  kind.  [Aside.]  It  was  by  a 
smiling.  [Aloud.]  But  I must  explain  to  Minerva. 

Fitz.  Stay,  sir  ! By  Heaven  ! you  shall  stay.  [Seizes  him. 

Butter.  Fitz,  Fitz  1 [Struggling  with  him.]  My  future  happiness  is 

at  stake.  That  d -d  long-headed  Scotchman’s  having  it  all  his  own 

way  with  Minerva.  I must  explain,  or  perish  in  the  attempt  ! 

[Breaks  from  him , and  rushes  off,  r.  c. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merryweather,  r.  u.  e. 

Mrs.  M.  What ! all  gone  but  you  I What  has  happened  1 You 
seem  agitated. 

Fitz.  Nothing.  Another  mistake  of  that  ass,  Butterby’s — a sudden 
illness  of  Miss  Crane — I don’t  know.  [Aside.]  Oh  ! he  shall  answer 
for  this  ! 

Mrs.  M.  And  no  one  here  to  welcome  my  paragon  of  wives. 
Hornbi.ower,  Muddlemist,  Merryweather,  and  Rowley  come  down. 

Mrs.  M (c.)  Will  nobody  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  1 

Mer.  (r.  c.)  Nothing,  my  dear — a slight  mistake,  that’s  all.  Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! [Rowley  laughs. 

Mrs  M.  And  what  on  earth  is  that ! [Pointing  to  trousers. 

Row.  (r.)  A present  of  Mr.  Butterby’s  to  Miss  Crane. 

[Picks  up  trousers,  and  puts  them  on  sofa,  r. 

Mer.  For  use  after  marriage. 

Mrs.  M.  I will  not  have  my  protege’s  triumphal  entry  ruined  in  this 
way 

Fitz.  (l.)  How  I long  to  see  her!  What  is  her  name  1 

Mrs.  M.  1 only  know  her  by  her  maiden  name — her  married  one  is 
a secret. 

Fitz.  A secret ! I love  mystery. 

Mrs.  M.  The  husband,  it  seems,  is  ashamed  of  this  charming  crea- 
ture, Decause  her  family  is  inferior  to  his  own. 

Fitz.  [Winces]  Indeed! 

Mrs.  M.  How  you,  the  poet,  who  feel  that  true  nobility  is  of  the 
soul,  must  scorn  such  weakness. 

Fitz.  And  yet  the  world — 

Mrs.  M.  Has  a sad  power  over  natures  like  this  selfish  man’s. 
Luckily,  we  are  above  such  folly. 

Fitz  [Aside.]  Much  you  know  about  it ! 

Mrs  M.  But  my  paragon  is  waiting.  Come,  all  of  you,  and  above 
all  Mr.  Fitzherbert.  who  so  well  appreciates  the  excellences  of  woman, 
let  me  present  to  you  one  who  concentrates  all  these  excellences  in  hei 
iwn  sweet  person. 


42 


VICTIMS. 


Goes  to  r.  v e.,  and  brings  on  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  who  enters  timidly \ 
with  downcast  eyes. 

Mer.  Now  for  my  revenge,  Rowley  ! 

[Fitzherbert  has  turned  up,  and  got  over  io  r.  c 

Fitz.  Horn. 

Rowley  Merry.  Mrs.  F.  Mrs.  M.  Muddle, 

r.  c.  L. 

Mrs.  M.  Let  me  introduce  to  my  most  valued  friends  one  I am  proud 

to  add  to  their  number.  Mrs. [Aside  ] Your  married  name,  dear  1 

You  must  tell  me  now,  you  know. 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside  ] I dare  not  ! 

Mrs.  M [Aside  ] You  must  ! I can’t  present  you  as  a “ Miss.” 

Mrs.  F.  [In  a ha  if  whisper.]  Fitzherbert,  ma’am. 

Mrs.  M [ Surprised .]  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  1 

Fitz.  [ Who  has  turned  at  the  name  down  r.  of  Mrs  Fitzherbert.] 
Lucy  ! my  wifel 

Mrs.  M.  His  wife  ! 

Mer.  I’m  satisfied  ! [Rowley  whistles. 

Fitz  Am  I brought  here  to  be  mortified — mystified — made  a fool  of? 

Mer.  [Aside,  to  him  ] No,  sir,  only  to  be  read  a lesson  to. 

Mrs.  F.  Indeed — indeed,  dear,  I kept  our  secret;  did  I not,  Mi 
Merry  weather  1 

Mer.  You  did,  Lucy.  It  was  I who  surprised  it  by  an  accident,  Mu 
Fitzherbert  I and  my  wife  called  at  your  lodgings  to  return  some 
papers  which  you  left  here  this  morning — no  doubt  by  mistake — here 
they  are.  [ Gives  him  papers. 

Fitz.  [Aside.]  My  bills — cancelled  ! The  verses  from  the  bouquet  1 

Mer.  Discovering  the  treasure  this  jealous  poet  kept  hid  from  all  of 
us,  we  determined,  by  this  little  trick,  to  teach  him  that  a man’s  wife 
is  not  all  his  own  property,  but  a blessing  that  his  friends  have  some 
claim  to  share.  [Aside  to  Fitzherbert.]  I was  not  the  first,  you 
know,  to  put  the  doctrine  in  practice. 

Mrs.  F.  Herbert,  dearest,  you  are  not  angry  with  your  poor  Lucy  1 

Fitz.  No,  Lucy — it  is  not  anger  that  keeps  me  silent  ; it  is  s^hame — 
it  is  remorse. 

Mer.  Remorse  ! Pooh  ! that’s  too  strong  a term.  Of  course,  gentle- 
men, you  don’t  suppose  there  was  any  truth  in  my  wife’s  picture  of  the 
husband. 

Row.  No  ; that  was  our  fun. 

Tjforn.  and  | qj^  course — capital — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

[ They  go  up  a little. 

Mrs.  M.  [Aside]  And  this  is  the  man  for  whom  I had  almost  for- 
gotten the  duties  of  a wife  ! George  ! [Merryweather  goes  to  her.  J 
I have  been  weak,  wicked,  mad.  How  I have  misjudged  this  yjan 
how  I have  misjudged  you  ! 

Row.  But  here  comes  our  hero  of  the  unmentionables  1 


VICTIMS. 


4S 


Re-enter  Butterbt  with  Miss  Crane  on  his  arm , r.  c.,  Curdle 
following  discomfited.  Guests  all  follow  on. 

Butter  Yes,  here  I am,  by  Jove  ! All  is  explained.  It’s  a case  of 
set  down  one  and  carry  one  — eh,  Curdle  1 
Curd.  I call  it  a case  of  subtraction. 

Mrs  M.  My  dear  friends,  I congratulate  you.  But  here  is  a new 
member  of  our  happy  circle — Miss  Crane,  Mr.  Butterby — Mrs.  Fitz- 
herbert.  s 

[Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merryweather  and  Rowley  go  up  a little. 
Butter.  [Aside.]  The  undulating  milliner,  by  Jove  I 
Mrs.  F.  [Aside.]  The  silly  man  ! 

Miss  C.  What  means  this  agitation,  Joshua  ? I thought  that  now, 
at  least,  our  horizon  was  all  serene. 

Butter.  Nothing  ; merely  my  felicity  ! — it’s  too  colossal  to  carry 
steadily — by  Jove  it  is  ! [Aside  to  Mrs.  Fitzherbert.]  Don’t  say 
anything,  for  mercy’s  sake,  till  I’m  married.  [Passes  her  over  to  Miss 
Crane.]  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Miss  Crane.  [Aside  to  Fitz- 
herbert.] 1 stole  that  card  ; it  was  an  act  of  felony  of  the  most 
despicable  description. 

Miss  C.  Joshua  1 
Butter.  Minerva  ! 

[ Crosses  to  her,  and  all  come  to  their  places  as  before. 
Mer.  Well.  Emily,  you  are  pensive,  my  love. 

Mrs.  M.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  I feel  all  the  suffering  my  folly  and 
selfishness  have  caused  you 

Mer.  He  talked  so  well,  Emily, 

Mrs.  M.  And  you  knew  all — his  selfishness,  his  embarrassments, 
and  never  betrayed  the  one,  or  took  advantage  of  the  other  1 O 
George,  you  are  good  and  great,  and  I — I am  unworthy  of  you  1 

[Hides  her  tears  upon  his  shoulder. 
Mer.  [Aside  to  Rowley,  looking  over  his  shoulder  1 Look  at  this, 
Jack,  does  this  make  up  for  the  discomfort  of  this  morning’s  break* 
fast  1 

Row.  Egad  ! Merryweather,  I’ll  go  and  get  married  immediately. 

Mer.  Yes,  this  might  tempt,  in  marriage  bonds  to  mingle 
The  sternest  bachelor  who  e’er  lived  single — 

Such  women  are  1 

Row.  Query  ! 

Mrs.  M Not  all,  1 own. 

Butter.  Be  my  Minerva,  for  example  shown, 

Against  her  sex  for  strength  of  mind — 

[Aside.] — and  bone  I 

* Jtf  Of  married  life,  our  cases  prove  this  much. 

All  are  not  victims,  who  behave  as  such— 


VICTIMS. 


'tft 

Mrs.  F While  many  a victim  wears  the  marr.age  ctiait. 
Who  never  feels — 

Fitz.  Or  never  tells  the  pain. 

Mrs.  M.  But  let  your  hands  give  us  assurance  certain, 

All  this  night’s  “ Victims”  are  our  side  the  curlain 


Git  bats. 

Guests. 

Guests. 

Guests. 

a 

1 1 

p4 

«S 

3 

S' 

1 

s 

1 

* 

a 

a 

Butter. 

Miss  C. 

1 1 

JR. 

a 

WS TAW. 

Hobs. 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD  DRAMA. 

®ije  Acting  lEMtfon. 

No.  CLXXXVII. 


BOMAICE  AFTEB  MARRIAGE; 

OR 

THE  MAIDEN  WIFE. 

%,  Comtirjr  in  ibree  ^cts. 

BY  FRANK  B.  GOODRICH  AND  FRANK  L.  WARDEN, 

Authors  of  “ Fascination." 


TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED 


A Description  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exits— 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and 
the  whole  of  the  {Stage  " 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  WALLACE’S  THEATRE,  NOVEMBER,  1857. 


1 


NEW  YORK: 

SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

122  Nassau  Street,  (Up  Stairs.) 


-s  ■ ' ..  f 

Cast  of  ti)e  ®.|)avact«rg. — [Roman.ce  after  Marriage.] 

Wallack's  Theatre , November,  1857  . 

Ernest  Devkreux, Mr.  Lester. 

Victor,  (his  brother,) Mr.A.H.Davenport, 

Count  Cavalcanti,  - Mr.  Walcot. 

Mud  wit,  - - » - _ . . - Mr.  Blake.  .... 

Lafleche,  - - - - - Mr.  Levere.  j y 

Lafontaine, Mr.  Russell 

Cook, - Mr.  Jeffries. 

Boy,  - - j,  - - ■>  Mr.  C.-Parsloe. 

•Louise  Devereux, Miss  Sara  Stevens. 

Griselda,  (her- sister,) Mrs.  Hoey. 

Marietta,  - Miss  Mary  Gannon. 

Peasants,  -c. 

TIME — Present  Day. 

Costume  . — MODERN.  That  of  Victor,  the  Uniform  of  a Lieu- 
tenant in  the  French  Army. 

13^  This  Comedy  is  a dramatic  developement  of  a situation  fur- 
nished by  the  epistolary  romance  of  La  Clef  d' Or. 

' ^ - •'  A 

STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance , Left.  R.  First  Entrance,  Right.  S.  E.  I* 
Second  Entrance \r  Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Right.  U.  E.  L. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  It.  Upper  Entrance,  Eight.  C.  Centre 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance , 
Left.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R. 
Door  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Left.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door,  Left  U.  D.  R. 
Upper  Door,  Right. 

***  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  One  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty  Seven, 
by  Frank  B.  CojitoRtCH,  aihd  Frank  I..  Warden,  in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District 
Ouurt  of  the  United-’States^  for  the? Southern  District  of  New  York  . 

. Abr.  ;•■  A'.;-..-. ' ' 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE; 

OR,  THE  MAIDEN  WIFE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE. — An  illuminated  garden , with  a chateau  in  the  back- 
ground.— An  arbor  1st.  groove. , l.  h. — Night. 

Marietta  discovered  c.  Enter  Cook  from  chateau  whipping  a syl- 
labub. 


Cook.  Are  they  coming,  Marietta  I The  wedding  must  be  over. 

Marietta.  No,  not  yet.  Poor  dear  Miss  Louise,  I wonder  if  she 
will  be  happy  with  her  husband. 

Cook.  In  course  she  will.  Mr.  Ernest  is  a man  who  has  a proper 
respect  for  his  stomach ; and  a man  with  a good  digestion  always 
makes  his  wife  happy.  That’s  a fundamental  culinary  principle. 

Mar.  Then  I’ll  take  care  to  get  a husband  with  a good  di- 
gestion. [Music  heard  without.]  There  they  go,  into  the  house.  Run, 
Robert,  they’ll  want  that  syllabub.  [Exit  Cook  hastily  into  chateau .] 
I wonder  now,  how  you  know  a man  that  has  a good  digestion  ? I 
wonder  what’s  a sign  of  it,  if  freckles  are,  for  instance.  Ah  ! here 
comes  the  bride’s  sister,  my  mistress. 

Enter  GniSELDA/r om  chateau.  : 

Gris.  Oh!  dear  me!  I must  have  the  fresh  air.  I can’t  remain 
in  the  house.  I believe  I should  have  felt  no  worse  if  I had  been  mar- 
ried myself.  Married  myself  1 And  yet  there  is  nothing  unnatu- 
natural  in  that ; am  I not  the  elder  sisterl  Ah,  Victor!  [Sighs. h 

Mar.  [ Advancing .]  Are  they  married,  ma’am  1 

Gris.  Yes,  child  ; she  has  made  herself  over,  for  better  or  worse, 
for  ever  and  ever,  Amen  ! 

Mar.  And  how  did  Miss  Louise  behave  during  the  ceremony, 
ma’am  1 

Gris.  Poor  girl ! [ Wipes  her  eyes.]  Poor  sister ! Ah  ! Marietta, 

marriage  is  a rascally  invjntion  ! 


Enter  Lafontaine,  mysteriously,  r.  h. 


Lafont.  I have  the  honor  of  addressing  Miss  Marietta  ? 


4 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


\ 


Mar.  Mr.  Lafontaine,  I believe,  Mr.  Ernest’s  gentleman  7 

La f.  Yes,  Miss.  [ Confidentially .]  My  master  directed  me  to  apply  to 
you  to  learn  where  I am  to  put  this  little  package. 

Gris.  What  little  package  7 

Mar.  [Aside.]  I wonder  what’s  in  it! 

Laf.  [2b  Griselda.]  Why  his  brushes  madame;  his  shaving  ap- 
paratus ; in  short  the  accessories  of  his  toilet. 

Gris.  [Horrified.]  Pah ! I declare  ! on  his  wedding  day ! 

Mar.  What  can  he  want  to  shave  for,  to-night  7 

Laf.  [c.]  You  understand,  ladies,  that  it  would  be  annoying  for 
him  not  to  have  at  hand,  to-morrow  morning,  the  conveniences  to 
which  he  is  accustomed. 

Mar.  He’s  got  a good  digestion,  I vow  ! 

Gris.  This  is  disgusting,  Lafontaine,  and  you  may  stow  it  where 
you  like — your  little  package,  I would  not  touch  it  with  the  tips  of 
my  fingers. 

Laf.  May  I ask  what  there  is  disgusting  in  a gentleman  wishing  to 
shave  in  the  morning  7 

Gris.  Perhaps  you’ve  brought  his  night-cap,  too  ! 

[ Goes  up,  indignantly. 

Mar.  Here,  give  it  to  me.  Shaving-tackle  on  the  night  of  his  wed- 
ding ! No  one  but  a man,  now,  would  have  such  an  idea  as  that ! 

[Exit,  contemptuously,  into  chateau. 

Laf.  What  better  can  we  expect  of  people  educated  in  the  rural 
districts  ! [Exit,  loftily,  r.  h. 

Gris.  [Coming  down.]  Ah,  Victor,  Victor!  Yes;  why  shouldn’t 
it  be  so  7 the  elder  brother,  Ernest,  marries  the  younger  sister,  Louise ; 
what  would  be  more  natural  than  for  the  younger  brother,  Victor,  to  mar- 
ry the  elder  sister,  Griselda  7 We  should  be  a nice  family  party,  and 
could  play  whist  together  without  that  odious  Mudwit.  Oh  ! here  she 
comes,  poor  thing. 

Enter  Louise,  from  the  chateau. 

Louise.  Griselda  dear,  I want  to  tell  you  a secret. 

Gris.  Well,  love,  what  secret  can  you  have  for  me  on  your  wedding 
night  7 

Louise.  I am  so  happy,  Griselda — I am  too  happy  ! 

Gris.  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  continue  so,  Louise. 

Louise.  Oh,  my  heart  would  have  burst,  sister,  had  I not  found 
some  one  to  tell  how  happy  I am ! Oh,  Griselda,  after  the  title  of 
Mother,  do  you  know  what  is  the  prettiest  title  7 Elder  sister. 

Gris.  No,  Louise,  Younger  sister  is  a prettier  still. 

Louise  Do  you  remember,  a year  ago,  Griselda,  how  I told  you  of 
my  dreams,  and  the  romances  of  which  I was  the  heroine,  and  of 
which  I created  the  hero  from  my  own  imagination.  And  when  I told 
you  of  the  portrait  I had  drawn,  you  prayed  that  heaven  would  send 
me  the  reality  equal  to  my  dream.  Such  as  I pictured  him,  Grisel- 
da, heaven  has  sent  him.  He  lives ! He  stood  by  me  in  the  church; 
he  loves  me — I am  his  wife.  This  is  the  secret  that  I had  to  tell  you, 
Griselda — to  you,  whom  I love  more  than  ever — you  who  shall  be  the 
confidant  of  that  love  I dare  not  yet  confide  to  him. 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


6 


Oris.  You  cannot  love  me  more  than  I love  you,  Louise.  But 
you  are  lost  to  me  now ; I lose  a sister,  and  gain — a brother-in-law. 

Louise.  A brother,  Griselda — he  shall  be  your  brother.  But.  I am 
afraid  of  one  thing : that  I am  not  worthy  of  him. 

Gris.  Nonsense,  love;  it  is  quite  as  likely  he  is  not  worthy  of  you. 

Louise.  Why,  he  is  as  bold  as  a lion.  I asked  about  his  adventures 
in  Africa,  of  his  brother  Victor,  whose  life  he  saved  in  Algeria 

Gris.  Why,  has  Ernest  ever  been  a soldier  1 and  did  he  save  Victor’s 
life  1 How  I love  him  for  that ! 

Lcuise.  Yes,  and  among  the  Arabs,  too.  And  to  think,  Griselda, 
that  this  terrible  man  sits  humbly  at  my  feet,  and  holds  my  hand  in 
his ! Oh,  I love  him  ! How  I love  him  ! 

G>  is.  Love  him  as  much  as  you  like,  Louise,  but  take  my  advice — 
I am  five  years  older  than  you — dont  tell  him  of  it — at  least,  in  the 
way  you  tell  me  of  it. 

Louise.  Why,  I should  not  dare,  Griselda;  I hardly  know  him. 
Still,  we  are  now  husband  and  wife.  For  myself,  I am  sure  that  this 
charming  future,  which  begins  to-night,  will  teach  me  nothing  of  him 
which  I have  not  already  guessed,  and  which  will  not  justify  his  tri- 
umph, and  my  enslavement. 

Gris.  I thought  him  somewhat  cold  during  the  ceremony ; at  least, 
if  he  had  been  my  husband,  I should  have  thought  so. 

Louise.  Why,  you  would  not  have  him  shed  tears  like  a woman, 
would  you  1 

Gris.  Hark ! 

Louise  it  is  he  and  M.  Victor. 

Gris.  They  are  coming  this  way  ; let  us  listen. 

Louise.  They  are  talking  of  me — would  it  be  wrong  to  listen  7 
Why,  no;  is  he  not  my  husband'?  Here,  Griselda,  in  this  bower— - 
quick — there.  [They  conceal  themselves  in  bower. 

Enter  Victor  and  Ernest,  arm-in-arm , l.  3 e. 

Em.  Is  it  for  propriety’s  sake,  Victor,  that  you  leave  us  so  soon  7 

Vic.  No ; for  necessity’s  sake.  My  furlough  expires  to-morrow. 

Em.  I am  sorry,  Victor.  Promise,  at  any  rate,  to  return  in  a month 
or  so — in  time  for  the  shooting  season. 

Vic.  No,  I thank  you ; a third  party  in  a honeymoon ! There’s  not 
a situation  on  earth  more  trying  to  all  concerned. 

Em.  It  is  quite  plain  that  you  are  lately  from  Africa,  Victor.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  a tete-a-tete  of  two  months  is,now-a-days,  considered 
quite  sufficient,  and  that  a friend,  more  especially  a brother,  does  but 
his  duty  in  coming  to  interrupt  it. 

Vic.  By  the  saints,  if  I had  such  a wife,  I would  shut  myself  up 
with  her  in  a tower  ! 

Em.  And  so  you  like  my  wife,  do  you,  Victor  7 Why,  with  your 
ideas,  you  ought  to  get  married  yourself. 

Gris.  [In  bower.]  Oh  ! 

Vic.  On  the  contrary  : with  my  ideas,  I ought  not  to  get  married 
unless  your  wife  has  a duplicate. 

Gris.  [Aside.]  Am  not  I a duplicate  7 f 


6 • ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

Em.  Why,  what  is  there  so  extraordinary  in  my  wife  l She  is 
pretty,  of  course — but  really,  enthusiasm  is  out  of  place. 

Vic.  Come,  Ernest,  no  gasconade  with  me ; confess  that  you  adore 
her. 

Em.  Victor,  have  I manifested  any  symptoms  of  lunacy  since  you 
have  been  here  I 

Vic.  You  did  not  marry  her  without  loving  her,  I suppose  1 

Em.  I married  her  precisely  because  I was  not  in  love  with  her ; 
because  I have  been  in  love  till  I am  done  with  it ; because  I have 
had  enough  of  it ; because  I am  thirty  years  old,  and  an  old  bachelor 
is  a disagreeable  member  of  society.  The  estate  of  Louise,  Victor, 
joined  mine,  and  this  propinquity,  with  the  alliance  it  suggested,  was 
the  prologue  to  the  little  pastoral  drama,  of  which  you  have  just  wit 
nessed  the' finale. 

Vic.  You  will  never  persuade  me  that  in  marrying  Louise,  you  were 
moved  solely  by  such  a miserable  consideration. 

Ern.  Not  altogether,  for  I was  already  contemplating  marriage. 
Had  I found  Louise  deformed,  or  idiotic,  of  course  I should  have 
abandoned  my  plan  of  uniting  her  estate  to  mine.  So  far  from  that, 
however,  I found  her  to  be  a young  lady  of  good  position  and  of  de- 
cent manners,  and  I felt  that  I could  conceive  for  her  that  calm  and 
solid  affection  that  an  honest  man  owes  to  the  mother  of  his  children. 

Vic.  No  matter;  you  have  deceived  her.  You  are  very  wrong, 
Ernest. 

Ern.  In  wdiat  have  I deceived  her,  pray  1 

Vic.  Do  you  suppose  that  this  child,  whose  portrait  you  are  far 
from  flattering,  expects  of  you  nothing  but  a calm  and  solid  affection? 

Em.  What  would  you  have  her  expect  ? I take  it  that  she  looks 
upon  marriage  as  marriage,  a cat  as  a cat,  and  a husband  as  a hus- 
band I 

Vic.  But  she  is  not  twenty  years  old ; youth  sparkles  in  her  eyes, 
and  blood  courses  in  her  veins ! Where  is  the  girl,  educated  in  wealth 
and  refinement,  who  does  not  build  her  nuptial  palace  in  the  very 
bosom  of  the  clouds'? 

Em.  Is  it  my  fault  if  she  builds  castles  in  the  air,  instead  of  on 
dry  ground  I Am  I to  consume  my  days  in  eternal  celibacy,  because 
young  ladies  are  romantic  and  perverse  1 

Vic.  Ernest,  farewell ! 

Ern . Are  you  angry,  Victor  1 

Vic.  No, — but  deeply  pained.  Ernest ! I can  no  longer  hear  you 
treat  with  this  affectation  of  contempt,  the  noblest  sentiments  of  the 
heart ! Farewell ! Hark ! Some  one  comes  this  way ! 

Ern.  They  are  looking  for  me — it  is  high  time ! Two  words  more — 
you  asked  me  why  I married.  It  is  my  supreme  effort,  Victor,  my 
forlorn  hope  ! Marriage  appeared  to  me  as  a last  means  of  regenera- 
tion. I imagined  that  a fresh  baptism  of  life  and  the  contact  of  a young 
and  innocent  heart,  would  rekindle  my  blood,  and  renew  my  soul ! 

Vic.  Well  ? 

Ern.  Well,  Louise  is  a good  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  love — but  she 
has  not"  the  force  of  character  necessary  to  efface  the  past, — the 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


7 


past  of  an  idler,  a debauchee,  and  a disbeliever : — so  far  from  it,  she 
revives  my  most  odious  souvenirs, — her  gestures,  her  features,  her 
familiar  language,  remind  me  of— ah ! I dare  not  say  whom! — In 
short,  to  me,  she  is  but  the  cold  copy  of  a dozen  who  have  gone  before 
her ! — 

. Vic.  Say  no  more ! Adieu ! I hardly  know  which  of  you  is  the 
most  to  be  pitied  ! 

Em.  I am,  Victor  ! These  infamies  are  a closed  book  to  Louise, — 
and  she  cannot  torment  herself  with  what  she  knows  not  of ! 

Vic.  Promise  to  write  me  the  sequel  of  this — for  I love  you,  not- 
withstanding ! 

Em.  Thank  you,  Victor'?  I will  write  to  you,  certainly:  but 
there  will  be  no  sequel ! I shall  expect  you  in  two  months,  at  the 
farthest : — good  night ! 

Vic . Brother,  good  night — and  farewell!  [ They  shake  hands.. 
Exit  Victor  into  chateau — Ernest  paces  up  and  down — Louise  goes 
up , and  comes  down , as  from  the  house. 

■ Louise.  Ernest ! •; 

• Em.  Louise  ! you  here  ! why  how  pale  you  are ! 

Louise.  A mere  trifle — it  will  pass  off ! 

« Em.  You  are  agitated,  Louise  ! not  afraid,  I trust  ? why  it  is  I who 
should  be  afraid ! your  youth  and  beauty  may  well  disturb— intimidate 
even ! I shall  be  jealous  of  you,  child  ! 

Louise.  Indeed. 

» Em.  You  are  my  wife  before  heaven  and  earth,  Louise ! but  in 
your  own  heart,  am  I your  husband  ? do  you  love  me  1 

Louise.  And  you,  sir  ?.  do  you  love  me  ? 

Em.  To  assume  your  chains  requires  but  an  instant,  whiten t would 
take  a life-time;  to  break  them  I 

Louise.  You  mean  by  this  poetic  phrase,  that  you  love-me  % ' " 

Em.  Singular  child? — Yes,  I do  love  you,  and  more  than  I had 
imagined  possible ! [Smiles.. 

i Louise.  But  why  that  smile  1 Gan  you  not  say  so  seriously? 

. Em.  Seriously  and  tenderly,  most  coquettish  of  wives,  I love  you! 

Louise.  Very  good : — You  are  at  least  polite,  if  you  are  not  sincere ! 
I merely  wished  to  see  with  what  face  a man  can  prevaricate  ! Re- 
lease my  hand  sir! — Ah,  your  mask  is  falling!— I never  saw  you 
wear  that  countenance  before ! 

Em.  [ Violently .]  Are  you  mad,  madame? 

Louise.  No,  Ernest,— I am  perfectly  sane,  and  I hope  you  will  be 
no  less  so!— I overheard,  by  accident,  your  conversation  with  your 
brother.  I did  not  seek,  nor  desire,  believe  me.  the  sad  intelligence 
that  your  words  conveyed ! — But  still  I cannot  refuse  to  be  guided  by 
the  light  thus  unwittingly  obtained,  and  no  language  can  describe 
the  contempt  I should  feel  for  myself,  if  after  such  a revelation,  I 
still  adhered  to  the  vows  of  submission  I made  you  in  my  ignorance! 

Em.  [After  walking  agitatedly.]  Speak  ! — What  are  your  plans  ? 

Louise.  I have  little  knowledge  of  the  law, — but  would  like  to 
know  whether,  there  is  not  some  means  of  sundering,  without1  dis* 
honor*  ties  as  slight  as  ours? 


8 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Em.  Impossible  ! The  least  step  in  that  direction  would  occasion 
irreparable  scandal ! 

Louise.  And  yet  this  marriage  is  a mockery. 

Em.  Who  has  filled  your  head  with  these  ideas  1 — and  who  has 
put  these  unintelligible  words  upon  your  lips  1 

Louise.  Ernest,  you  hare  not,  I think,  fully  understood  my  charac- 
ter, and  you  place  too  low  an  estimate  upon  my  capacity  ! Do  you 
suppose  that  your  interview  with  Victor  was  beyond  the  intelligence 
of  a woman  of  my  age?  You  seem  astonished  at  my  language  ! — 
why,  what  strange  opinions  you  must  hold ! Ernest,  among  all  the 
girls  whom  you  would  disdainfully  dismiss  to  their  dolls  and  samp- 
lars,  there  is  not  one,  who  could  not  speak  to  you  as  I speak, — if  she 
dared, — or  could  not  suffer,  as  I suffer, — if  Heaven  so  decreed ! 

Em.  [ More  kindly .]  Louise  ! listen  to  reason.  You  exaggerate, 
at  your  age  all  do.  Suppose  that  in  this  unlucky  conversation,  that 
you  have  innocently  overheard,  I myself  exaggerated  nothing,  do  yon 
consider  yourself  the  victim  of  an  exceptional  and  monstrous  mis- 
fortune 1 If  you  do,  your  education  has  been  neglected.  In  our 
condition  of  life,  a married  couple  consists,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  of  a 
girl  full  of  romance  and  illusion,  and  of  a man  who  has  no  romance 
or  illusion  left;  and  this  is  even  considered  an  advantage,  and  the 
experience  and  maturity  of  the  husband  is  looked  upon  as  a sort  of 
necessary  counterpoise  to  the  dreams  and  miscalculations  of  the 
wife.  Society  is  thus  constituted,  and  you  cannot  change  it. 

Louise . I beg  your  pardon : as  far  as  I am  concerned  I will  change 
it ! 

Em.  You  might  be  better  employed,  madame ! — Every  young 
woman  has  had,  like  you,  her  dreams,  and  the  reality,  at  first, 
shocks  her  as  it  has  you, — but  she  resigns  herself,  at  last,  to  being  an 
amiable  wife  and  a good  mother,  and  I have  yet  to  learn  that  she  has 
been  accursed  or  dishonored  for  it ! . 

Louise.  [With  concentration .]  But  do  they  possess  the  secret 
which  I possess, — do  all  overhear  what  I have  overheard  ? No ! 
They  are  deceived,  as  I was ! I must  believe,  since  you  tell  me  so, 
that  all  husband’s  bring  their  wives  this  dowry,  but  their  wives  do 
not  know  it ! and  there’s  their  excuse ! Great  Heaven ! What  a 
craven  creature  would  she  be,  who,  knowing  as  I know,  to  what 
decrepitude  she  has  enchained  her  youth,  would  accept  from  this 
impious  union,  the  sacred  title  of  wife  or  mother ! 

Em.  Louise,  Louise,  you  drive  me  to  despair ! 

Louise.  Am  I to  believe,  sir,  that  we  were  meant  only  for  sub- 
alterns, whose  instincts,  faculties,  and  passions  are  to  be  subject  to 
your  despotic  caprice  ? Has  woman  a soul  ? Am  I a human  being  1 
What  sir,  because  it  pleased  you  to  cast  a favorable  eye  upon  my 
person,  or  rather  upon  my  estate,  am  I suddenly  to  forget  my  dear- 
est hopes, — to  command  my  brain  to  stop  thinking,  and  my  heart  to 
cease  beating!  You  ask  me  to  share  your  lassitude — I who  have 
never  traveled, — and  to  partake  of  your  death,  I who  have  never 
lived ! Is  it  just  ? — Is  it  decent  1 — Is  it  possible  1 — Come,  sir ! — I 
call  upon  your  honesty  for  a reply  ! 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE*  £ 

Em.  My  honesty  ! my  honesty,  Madame,  will  make  a reply  which 
has  become  trite  by  dint  of  being  true ; that  life  is  not  a romance  ' 

Louise.  [Sadly.]  And  when  you  were  younger,  sir,  and  heard  this 
truism,  did  you  believe  it  1 did  you  take  upon  trust  this  heartless 
maxim  1 oh,  no ! you  sought  for  your  romance — and  you  have  had  it ! 
It  was  not  a happy  one — be  it  so  ! and  at  present,  mine  promises  as 
little.  But,  at  any  rate,  I will  never  consent  to  see  my  romance,  a 
dream  though  it  was,  dragged  down  to  the  level  of  your  romance,  real- 
ized to  satiety  as  you  have  admitted  it  to  be. 

Em.  Explain  yourself,  Louise.  What  is  your  purpose  1 

Louise.  As  we  cannot  separate,  then,  without  incurring  scandal  and 
disgrace,  let  us  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  remain  united.  But  now  that 
you  know  me  better,  I hope  you  will  believe  me  when  I say  that  I 
shall  henceforth  be  a stranger  to  you ! I rely  upon  your  honor,  as 
well  as  upon  your  pride,  to  spare  me  any  sign  of  doubt  upon  this 
point ! 

Em.  You  shall  be  scrupuously  obeyed,  Madame.  Still,  is  it  nec- 
essary, for  the  repose  of  your  conscience,  that  our  two  lives  be  not 
only  distinct,  but  hostile  1 As  we  are  to  be  fellow  travelers,  may  we 
not  bestow  upon  each  other  those  reciprocal  attentions,  which  so 
enhance  the  charm  of  a journey  1 

Louise.  Oh,  with  all  my  heart  1 

Em.  May  we  not  be  friends,  even  'l  good  friends  'l  you  smile  ! 
heaven  be  praised ! Will  you  give  me  your  hand  in  witness  of  the 
compact  I that’s  well ! and  if  one  day  your  ideas  undergo  one  of  those 
changes  of  which  there  are  so  many  instances, — you  will  find  in  me, 
Louise,  a man  that  bears  no  malice  ! 

Louise.  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see.  But  I must  have  my  romance 
first.  It  is  getting  late,  sir,  and  I am  very  tired. 

Em.  Enough,  madame,  enough.  I am  tired  too.  Henceforth  you 
shall  have  no  cause  to  complain,  either  of  my  temper  or  my  presence. 
Pleasant  dreams  to*  you,  and  a conscience  void  of  all  reproach. 
Farewell.  [Aside.]  Damnation,  what  a wedding  night ! 

[Exit  into  chateau. 

Enter  Griselda — Louise  falls  upon  her  neck  sobbing. 

Oris.  Poor  sister ! I said  it  before,  and  say  it  again — marriage  is  a 
rascally  invention ! 


BND  OF  FIRST  ACT. 


10 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


ACT  II. 


CIjree  Units  Skater. 


SCENE  1. — A Landscape — 1 st  Groove. 

Enter  Cavalcanti,  l.  h. 

Caval.  Bless  my  soul,  we  had  a narrow  escape.  Lafleclie! 

Enter  Lafleche,  l.  h. 

Laji.  Here  I am,  sir.  Are  all  my  limbs  in  their  places  7 Have 
I killed  anybodj’’,  or  has  anybody  killed  me  1 

Caval.  That’s  what  it  is  to  have  such  a romantic  nature — I cannot 
exist  without  adventure.  I am  Don  Juan,  Rochester,  and  Richelieu 
combined — three  single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one. 

Laji.  And  how  was  your  Excellency  surprised  7 

Caval.  When  the  poor  girl  spoke  of  marriage,  I stood  transfixed. 
She  screamed  ; the  father  and  brothers  entered,  with  pitchforks  and 
flails.  It  was  then  that  I jumped  out  of  the  window.  And  where 
were  you  all  this  time  7 

Laji.  I was  at  the  feet  of  the  chambermaid,  when  suddenly  I re- 
ceive a blow  behind  which  wounded  my — pride. 

Caval.  You  are  fortunate  if  it  wounded  nothing  more  sensitive. 

Laji.  I saw  that  all  was  discovered,  and  again  had  cause  to  bless 
the  man  who  first  invented  flight.  Who  have  we  here  1 

Enter  Marietta,  l.  h. 

Caval.  To  whom  does  yonder  chateau  belong,  my  dear  7 

Mar.  To  Madame  Devereux,  sir,  in  part. 

Caval.  A dowager  of  seventy,  doubtless  1 

Mar.  A bride  of  nineteen,  sir — she  was  married  but  three  weeks 
ago. 

Caval.  I did  intend  to  ask  her  hospitality  till  we  can  obtain  fresh 
horses,  but  I have  an  instinctive  dread  of  honeymoons  and  marriages. 

Mar.  You  can  apply  at  the  other  wing  of  the  chateau,  inhabited  by 
the  elder  sister  of  the  bride. 

Caval , Elder  sister  7 Very  much  elder,  I suppose  ** 

Mar.  Five  years,  sir. 

Caval.  Handsome  7 

Mar.  Judge,  sir.  She  keeps  me  for  a foil ; I furnish  her  beauty  a 
contrast.  When  I am  by  she  is  said  to  be  much  prettier  than  when 
she  is  alone. 

Lafl.  It  must  be  reflection,  most  amiable  foil. 

Caval.  The  effect  of  contagion,  most  appetizing  contrast.  You  are 
not  afraid  of  contagion  7 [Offers  to  kiss  Tier. 

Mar.  Yes,  but  I am,  though. 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


11 


idfl.  No,  she  is  not.  [Kisses  her. 

Caval.  Well,  dear,  go  on,  and  lay  our  request  at  your  mistress’s 
feet. 

Mar.  I will,  sir — but  once  under  our  roof,  your  valet  will  have  to 
mend  his  manners.  [Exit,  r.  h. 

Lafl.  You  seem  constantly  tormented  by  a dread  of  marriage,  sir. 
Caval.  Naturally  enough.  No  sooner  has  a woman  got  a lover  than 
she  is  mad  to  make  him  her  husband.  She  is  like  a snuffy  botanist, 
who  snips  up  flowers  blooming  in  the  sun,  to  make  dry  and  withered 
curiosities  of  them  in  a museum. 

Lafl.  Honor  and  virtue  compel  her  to  do  so. 

Caval.  I know  it ! and  that’s  the  worst  of  it.  Follow  the  argument, 
Lafleche.  I adore  the  sex ; I make  a public  profession  of  my  adora- 
tion, and  therefore,  as  I am  notoriously  a bachelor,  women  are  sure 
to  seize  upon  that  frivolous  pretext  to  convert  me  into-  the  snuffy 
curiosity  aforesaid.  Do  you  follow  the  argument  7 This  elder  sister 
now,  how  old  did  that  girl  say  she  was  7 
Lafl.  Nineteen  and  five  make  twenty-four. 

Carnal.  Twenty-four ! Sweet  age ! * Saccharine  moment  of  life ! 
Now,  were  I to  squeeze  her  waist,  or  merely  press  her  dimpled 
fingers,  she  would  think  I wanted  to  marry  her ! What  can  Ldo7 
Lafl.  Say  you’re  already  married.  ^ 

Caval.  No,  a married  man  labors  under  a whirlwind  of  disadvan- 
tages. I have  it.  I will  give  myself  out  as  a Knight  of  Malta,  as 
every  body  knows  that  the  rules  of  the  order  enforce  celibacy.  A 
Knight  of  Malta, — Yes!  It  will  be  as  if  I wore  a notice  upon  my 
hat,  thus : “ No  marrying  done  here !” 

Lafl.  I will  be  a lay  brother  of  the  same  order ! But  our  ambas- 
sadress must  have  delivered  our  message,  sir. 

Caval.  Very  well ; follow  me,  Lafleche.  I never  was  so  easy  in  my 
conscience  before ! what  a blessing  it  is  to  be  a Knight  of  Malta ! 

[Exit,  R.  H. 

Lafl.  I never  had  much  opinion  of  conscience,  and  now  I haven’t 
any ; especially  of  my  master’s  ! [Exit,  r.  u. 

SCENE  II. — Ernest’s  study.  Large  glass  doors  at  hack,  through 
which  is  seen  a Parle,  and  in  the  distance , a Swiss  Lake,  and 
Mont  Blanc. 

Enter  Louise,  cautiously,  r.  h.,  followed  by  Griselda. 

Louise.  Come,  Griz,  there’s  no  one  here  ! 

Gris.  And  suppose  there  were  7 

Louise.  Why,  if  he  were  here,  it  is  the  last  place  you  wrould  find 
me ! 

Gris.  Three  weeks  married,  and  the  wife  not  visited  the  husband 
in  his  den ! 

Louise.  Dear  me ! how  dusty  everything  is ! Ah  ! he  needs  a 
woman  to  look  after  him ! 

Gris.  Come,  Louise,  we’re  alone — let  us  read  the  letter.  I saw  the 
handwriting — I know  it’s  from  Victor. 


12 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Louise.  [Talcing  a letter  from  her  pocket.]  Perhaps  it  is,  though  I 
do  not  know  why  he  should  write  to  me.  Why  there’s  another  letter 
inside!  we’ll  read  Victor’s  first.  [Reading.]  “ My  dear  sister-in-law- 
will  you  permit  me  to  express  thus  briefly  the  regard  I feel  for  your 
character,  and  my  entire  appreciation  of  the  motives  which  seem  to 
guide  you  in  your  actions.  As  my  brother  has  promised  to  write  me 
the  events  which  transpire  from  day  to  day,  I think  I may  aid  you  in 
your  schemes,  by  returning  you  his  letters,  which  will  doubtless  let 
you  into  the  state  of  his  feelings  better  than  your  casual  intercourse 
with  him  could  do.  I enclose  you  the  first,  received  to-day. 

“ Yours  very  truly,  Victor  Devereux.” 

Gris.  Not  one  word  about  me  ! 

Louise.  A letter  from  Ernest!  what  can  there  be  in  it?  [Reads.] 
“ Wednesday,  June  25th.” — That’s  ten  days  after  he  was  married. 
“ My  dear  Victor,  I am  still  at  the  chateau,  where,  like  Jacob  in 
other  daj7s,  I am  to  tend  the  herds  of  Laban  for  fourteen  years,  in 
order  to  conquer  Rachel.”  Fourteen  years  ! what  a prospect ! ’ 

Gris.  What  a biblical  style  ! 

Louise.  Oh,  very  much  so.  [Reading.]  11  What  has  happened  since 
is  hardly  worth  relating.  The  morning  after  our  wedding,  my  wife 
and  I met  upon  the  grand  staircase.  We  descended  to  the  parlor,  arm- 
in-arm.  Everybody  looked  mysterious,  and  our  maiden  aunt  winked. 
After  breakfast  we  took  a ride  through  the  village,  during  which  my 
wife  never  made  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  singularity  of  our  posi- 
tion. She  never  alludes  to  it ; nor  does  her  manner  intimate  that  she 
even  remembers  it.  Then  she  showed  me  the  chateau  and  the  stables, 
and  presented  me  to  her  wonderful  saddle-horse  Darius.  Tell  me,  if 
you  can,  Victor,  what  species  of  woman  I have  taken  for  my  wife.” — 
Oh  ! here’s  the  conclusion. — “ One  thing  is  certain,  she  loves  me.  A 
hardened  miscreant  like  me  is  not  easily  deceived.  She  loves  me,  I 
repeat,  but  how  our  adventures  are  to  terminate,  I am  at  a loss  to 
imagine.  “ Yours  most  truly  and  affectionately, 

Ernest  Devereux.” 

[Puts  letter  in  her  bosom.]  So,  there  goes  letter  number  one.  It  may 
take  fourteen  years  indeed,  at  that  rate  ! 

Gris.  I have  said  it  before,  and  I say  it  again,  marriage  is  a ras- 
cally invention ! 

Enter  Marietta,  through  door  at  back. 

Mar.  Madame,  a gentleman  and  his  servant  desire  permission  to 
wait  in  the  chateau,  till  they  can  procure  fresh  horses. 

Gris.  Is  he  a young  gentlemen,  Marietta? 

Mar.  Yes,  madame ; and  so  handsome ! and  he’s  got  such  an  en- 
gaging valet ! 

Gris.  We  cannot  refuse,  Louise,  of  course ; and  as  we  have  no 
gentleman  protector — your  husband,  my  dear,  not  being  of  the  least 
assistance — I’ll  even  send  for  that  stupid  old  intendant,  Mudwit.  He’s 
safe,  and  eminently  respectable.  I dare  say  he’ll  have  another  wig 
on;  that’ll  be  the  third  this  week.  He  thinks  it  improves  his  beauty. 
Run  and  fetch  him,  Marietta.  [Exit  Marietta,  l.  h. 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


13 


Louise.  You  foolish  and  absurd  child.  One  would  think  you  were 
the  younger  sister,  instead  of  the  elder.  I shall  leave  you  to  your- 
self. Good  bye,  you  ridiculous  Griselda.  [Exit  Louise,  r.  h. 

Re-enter  Marietta,  l.  h.,  with  Mud  wit,  in  chestnut  wig. 

Gris.  I have  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Mudwit,  on  particular  business. 

Mud.  [Aside.]  Can  she  have  discovered  my  secret  sentiments  1 

Gris.  Why,  what  colored  hair  are  you  wearing  to-day  1 

Mud.  Chestnut,  madame,  chestnut.  [Aside.]  She’s  struck  5 I 
thought  this  color  would  do  it. 

Gris.  Why,  the  last  time  I saw  you  it  was  jet  black. 

Mud.  [Aside.]  She  notices  the  change.  It  was  only  last  week  that 
she  spoke  of  the  effect  of  hair  upon  the  human  features.  If  I could 
but  divine  her  favorite  color ! 

Gris.  I have  sent  for  you,  sir,  to  inform  you  that  you  are  to  be  my 
husband. 

Mud.  Oh,  madame  ! [Falling  at  her  feet.]  For  life  ! for  better  or 
worse ! 

Gris.  Better  you  might  be,  worse  you  could  not.  Marietta,  run 
and  bring  the  gentleman  hither.  [Exit  Marietta,  through  glass  door.] 
I only  mean,  sir,  while  this  stranger  is  in  the  chateau. 

Mud.  [Aside.]  Oh,  bother ! I hoped — hut  I’ll  make  the  most  of  the 
place  while  I’m  in.  Mrs.  Gregory  Mudwit,  I salute  you,  ma’am. 

Gris.  No  trifling,  sir.  You  shall  be  the  General  Count  Chateaufort, 
my  husband,  whom  rumor  declared  was  killed  in  the  Crimea,  a 
year  ago.  Now,  as  a married  woman,  I’ve  a right  to  coquet  with  this 
young  man  as  much  as  I please,  and  he  cannot  accuse  me  of  the  con- 
sequences. Mr.  Mudwit,  mind  and  assent  to  all  I say. 

Mud.  Might  it  not  be  well  for  me  to  bestow  upon  you  certain  gen- 
tle endearments,  in  his  presence,  in  order  to  render  the  deception  more 
complete  % 

Gris.  No,  sir,  it  would  not  be  well.  Put  on  your  gloves,  and  mind 
that  you  play  well  your  part. 

Mud.  [Aside.]  This  must  be  an  ingenious  device  to  show  me  that 
she  has  devined  my  sentiments.  She  wants  me  to  play  husband  with 
her ! 

Enter  Marietta,  through  glass  door , ushering  in  Cavalcanti. 

Mar.  My  mistress,  sir.  [Exit  Marietta. 

Caval.  [Aside.]  Charming,  indeed  ! Madame,  having  met  with  de- 
lay upon  the  road,  I have  taken  the  liberty 

Gris.  You  are  welcome,  sir — make  no  apologies.  [To  Mudwit.] 
Remember,  say  as  I do. 

Caval.  Madame,  as  I have  no  reason  to  travel  incognito,  allow  me 
to  present  myself : I am  Count  Cavalcanti,  [with  emphasis,]  Knight 
of  Malta. 

Gris.  Permit  me  to  present  to  you  General  Count  Chateaufort,  my 
hnsband,  who  is  still  suffering  from  his  last  campaign  in  the  Crimea. 

Mud.  The  Crimea, 

Caval.  [Aside.]  Married!  Why,  then,  my  order  of  Malta  is  uso 
loss — it  is  even  in  the  way.  Bah  ! I dare  say  she  has  forgotten  it. 


14 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Gris.  Tell  me,  Count,  of  what  does  your  Order  of  Malta  consist  1 
I confess  my  ignorance. 

Caval.  Oh,  it  is  an  Order  of  Knighthood,  like  any  other,  except  that 
it  enforces  celibacy,  and  all  the  bachelor  virtues  that  usually  accom- 
pany that  state. 

Gris.  I did  not  know  that  bachelors  had  any  virtues — a natural 
reason,  perhaps,  for  their  pursuit  of  virtue  in  other  people. 

Caval.  General,  you  seem  dim — are  you  unwell  I 

Gris.  Excuse  him,  sir,  pray.  The  unexampled  suffering  he  under- 
went in  the  Crimea  has  rendered  him  taciturn. 

Mud.  Taciturn. 

Gris.  He  distinguished  himself  in  a violent  skirmish.  Hacked  to 
pieces  by  the  enemy,  he  was  discovered  at  last  beneath  an  artillery 
cart,  whither  he  had  crawled  to  die.  A loaded  gun  was  by  his  side. 
He  had  fought  with  great  ardor,  as  was  proved  by  the  musket,  which 
was  found  to  contain  eleven  ball  cartridges. 

Mud.  Cartridges. 

Gris.  After  a long  absence,  during  which  he  was  reputed  dead, 
Heaven  restored  him  to  my  arms  ! 

Mud.  Arms. 

Gris.  He  returned  late  one  night,  in  the  dress  of  a Canterbury 
pilgrim. 

Mud.  Pilgrim. 

Caval.  [Aside.]  Why,  it  s an  echo  disguised  as  a man ! [Aloud.] 
General,  accept  my  sympathy ! Countess,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I will 
stroll  over  your  park.  It  seems  to  me  a very  Eden ! 

Gris.  Unless  I act  as  your  guide,  you  will  lose  yourself.  So  I 
will  go  with  you. 

Mud.  I will  accompany  you  and  the  Count,  dearest,  in  your  ex- 
cursion. 

Gris.  Oh,  no ! it  is  not  necessary,  husband ! — The  Count  will  ex- 
cuse you,  I am  sure ! 

Caval.  With  ecstacy,  general.  Don’t  mention  it  I beg.  [Aside.] 
She’s  throwing  herself  into  my  arms. 

Gris.  [Aside.]  Another  girl,  in  my  situation,  would  give* this  man 
encouragement.  But  I repel  him.  [ Very  graciously.]  Count,  your 
arm.  You  need  not  follow  us,  husband.  Remember  ! 

[Exeunt  Griselda  and  Cavalcanti,  through  doors  at  back. 

Mud.  I am  their  go-between.  I am  a supernumerary  on  a minute 
salary.  This  pretentious  stranger  must  have  conceived  a ridiculous 
idea  of  me.  But  then  she  has  introduced  me  as  her  husband,  and  a 
husband  has  privileges  which  I will  abuse.  It  is  hardly  professional, 
but  the  attenuating  circumstances  are  considerable,  not  to  say  more. 
I’ll  sticlc  to  them  like  a leech.  I’ll  haunt  her  like  her  shadow.  I’ll 
take  advantage  of  every  moment  to  indulge  in  uxorious  caresses  and 
marital  endearments,  which  of  course,  she  cannot  repudiate.  It  will 
be  shabby,  precious  shabby,  not  to  say  dammed  indelicate,  but  I’ll 
do  it.  [Exit  through  doors  at  back. 

Enter  Ernest,  r.  el 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


15 


Ern . A joke  which  lasts  three  weeks  should  be  a good  one,  which 
this  is  not.  What  has  come,  may  I ask,  of  Louise’s  magnificent  de- 
monstration the  other  night — a scene  of  reproach,  tears  and  defiance — 
all  ending  in  nothing.  My  wife  is  as  placid  as  a saint  on  a pedestal 
or  a cherub  in  heaven.  She  puzzles  me  beyond  conception,  and  of 
the  two,  is  by  far  the  most  composed.  She  seems  to  have  found 
marriage,  as  she  and  1 practise  it,  the  very  summit  and  acme  of 
human  felicity.  Yesterday,  now,  she  compelled  me  to  listen  to  a 
course  of  farm-yard  instruction  that  lasted  the  day  out.  I had  to 
pass  in  review  every  beast  on  the  estate ; horned  cattle,  sheep,  pigs, 
fowls,  Durhams,  Bantams,  half-breeds,  hybrids,  guinea-pigs,  and  a 
whole  state  fair  of  them  besides.  What  was  the  consequence  1 Last 
night,  I dreamed  I was  Noah’s  Ark,  receiving  into  my  swollen  sides 
select  specimens  of  all  animated  nature ! There  they  came,  two  by 
two  ! Then  came  two  human  specimens,  intended  to  transmit  their 
type  to  the  latest  posterity  ! I looked  at  them : — Great  Heaven ! 
I knew  them ! — myself  and  wife  ! — J ust  then  I awoke  ! 

Louise . [Putting  her  head  in  at  door , r.  h.]  Are  you  busy  h 
Busy! — No! — Amazed  l— Yes  ! 

Louise.  You  don’t  seem  in  a good  humor.  I’ll  call  another  day. 

Ern.  Stay!  Come  in,  madame. 

Louise.  Wait  a few  moments.  I’ll  be  back  directly.  [Exit. 

Ern.  What  on  earth  can  she  want  I This  is  the  first  time  since 
our  marriage  that  she  has  sought  me  in  my  room.  The  incident 
positively  agitates  me.  After  all,  if  Louise  wants  a hero  for  her  ro- 
mance, she  can’t  do  better  than  to  take  me,  for  I am  the  best  dressed 
man  in  the  country  round  about.  Hist ! here  she  comes. 

Re-enter  Louise,  r.  h.  with  large  armful  of  papers  and  account 
books — she  puts  them  on  the  table . 

Louise.  Pah!  how  dirty  they  are!- 1 should  think  grandpa  had  never 
dusted  them  once ! 

Ern.  And  pray  what  are  these  musty  relics  1 your  complete  wTorks 
in  the  original  mauscript  I 

Louise.  No  sir.  They  are  all  the  papers  relating  to  our  estate, 
and  ttie  two  mills.  I wish  you  would  put  them  a little  in  order. 

Ern.  Excuse  me,  my  dear,  but  if  the  tenants  pay,  and  the  mills  turn, 
they  seem  to  me  in  the  best  possible  order. 

Louise.  They  don’t  seem  so  to  me,  and  as  you  married  me  for  my 
fortune,  it  cannot  be  unreasonable  to  ask  you  to  assume  the  control 
of  it. 

Ern.  My  dear  Louise,  I am  no  more  fitted  for  the  task,  than  is  a 
Christian  to  preach  the  Koran. 

Louise.  Nor  I,  my  dear  Ernest,  any  more  than  a Turk  to  preach 
the  Gospel.  But  if  you  prefer  to  count  the  linen,  I will  try  to  master 
the  accounts. 

Ern.  [Rummaging  among  the  books.']  On  the  whole,  I prefer  the 
accounts.  Are  there  any  books  here  selected  for  a gentleman’s  light 
reading  1 No ; ledgers,  journals,  vouchers,  blotters,  and  an  old 
almanac,  pah ! ..... 


16 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Louise.  Well,  sir,  I’ll  leave  you  to  your  studies,  and  take  a ride  on 
Darius  over  the  farm. 

Em.  I’ll  go  with  you. 

Louise.  I prefer  to  go  alone.  Good  morning.  [ Aside .]  And  now 
my  romance  is  begun ! [Exit  r.  h. 

Em.  What  an  infernal  glance  of  satisfaction  gleamed  in  her  eyes 
as  she  left  the  room ! Well,  I suppose  I must  even  buckle  to  it. 
Let’s  examine  the  filthy  things.  What’s  this  7 Profit  and  Loss,  all 
footed  up  at  the  bottom.  Nothing  could  be  clearer.  So  much  profit, 
so  much  loss — balance  to  creditor,  so  much.  [Throws  book  aside — - 
takes  another.]  Two  cubic  feet  of  figures,  and  a solid  yard  of  multi- 
plication table ! 9 and  8 are  17,  and  9 are  26,  and  7 are — Oh  ! why 
don’t  they  put  in  some  little  figures'? — so  many  big  ones  all  in  a lump. 
Hark ! I thought  I heard  Louise’s  horse. — What’s  this  red  line,  start- 
ing here  in  the  Northeast,  and  careering  in  this  extraordinary  manner 
to  the  Southwest  1 Oh ! I’m  to  be  an  accountant,  am  I,  and  a farmer, 
and  an  ornamental  gardener,  perhaps,  and  have  my  name  put  into  the 
country  papers  as  godfather  to  a mammoth  gooseberry  7 Who  knows 
but  that  I may  be  so  lucky  as  to  have  a three-legged  calf  7 Curse 
the  wThole  business,  I’ll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  There  goes  Dari- 
us ! I’ll  take  Cyrus  and  be  after  him.  Poor  Louise,  if  this  is  her 
romance,  I wish  her  joy  of  it. 

[ Exit , R.  H. 

Enter  Lafleche  through  glass  door , cautiously , followed  by  Ma- 
rietta. 

Lafl.  Come  in — there’s  no  one  here. 

Mar.  You’ll  find  paper  on  that  table. 

Lafl.  It’s  so  stupid,  Marietta,  to  want  it  in  writing. 

Mar.  Oh ! you  Knights  of  Malta  can’t  be  trusted  on  oath  ! 

Lafl.  Well,  here  it  is,  then.  [Writes.]  Will  that  do  7 

Mar.  I suppose  that  will  do.  Now  sign  it. 

Lafl.  Oh  ! isn’t  it  signed  7 There ! — And  now  for  the  seal*! 

Mar.  What  seal  7 

Lafl.  This.  [Kissing  her.]  Gilt-edged  paper  and  red  sealing  wax  ! 
Run,  Marietta  ; here  comes  my  master  ! [Run  off,  l.  h. 

Enter  Griselda  and  Cavalcanti,  through  glass  door. 

Gris.  Now  that  you  have  seen  the  grounds,  Count,  you  can  at  least 
say  how  you  liko  them. 

Caval.  Oh,  Madame ! I have  hardly  looked  at  the  grounds  ! I am 
not  a landscape  painter, — at  least,  when  miniatures  so  engaging  invite 
my  skill.  Your  portrait,  Countess,  would  drive  any  artist  to  despair ; 

for  never  was  physiognomy  so  variable,  never  was  expression  so 

, and  yet  so , as  yours.  Your  eyes  are  black,  beyond  a 

doubt,  and  yet  they  might  be  hazel,  did  they  not  reflect,  at  moments, 
the  azure  of  the  sky. 

Gris.  In  fact,  then,  they  are  tri-colored. 

Caval.  The  emblem  of  conquest.  Though  I cannot  paint  your 
portrait,  madame,  I will  paint  you  mine.  Properly  speaking,  I have 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


IT 


no  face,  but  only  phases,  like  the  moon.  During  the  rainy  season,  1 
could  plunge  my  fatherland  into  conflagration  and  civil  war,  but  the 
blue  canopy  of  the  skies  attunes  my  soul  to  tenderness,  and  I could 
open  my  heart  to  the  five  races  of  men ! 

Mud.  [ Without.]  Griselda,  love  ! 

Gris.  Mudwit ! the  impertinent  rogue  ! 

Mud.  Griselda,  my  sweet ! 

Caved.  Here  comes  the  husband;  I must  make  the  most  of  my 
time. 

Gris.  [Aside.]  The  wretch  did  not  see  us,  luckily.  Count,  tell  me 
a story. 

Caval.  Madame,  there-  was  once  a knight  in  love,  who  sat  upon  a 
sofa. 

Gris.  Let  us  hope  for  his  honor’s  sake,  he  was  not  a Knight  of 
Malta. 

Caval.  Ah ! madame,  that  would  not  be  a story.  That  would  be 
the  truth. 

Gris.  And  is  that  the  whole  of  it  T 

Caval.  Ah!  countess,  countess — Angel, — no,  demon  of  beauty, 
why  did  I ever  see  you ; I,  who,  sooner  or  later,  must  leave  you  1 
Why  am  I not  a charmed  statue  spell-bound  in  your  magic  garden  T 
Why  is  not [PaZZs  on  his  knees  before  her. 

Enter  Mudwit,  at  back. 

Mud.  Griselda,  dear,  Griselda  ! 

Caval.  Now,  the  devil  take  this  interruption. 

Gris.  Amen ! 

Caval.  She  says  Amen ! 

Gris.  You  see  it  is  my  husband,  sir,  release  my  hand. 

Caval.  I will.  [Passes  it  under  his  arm.]  Oh ! count,  is  it  you  T 
Excuse  me,  I thought  you  were  coming  the  other  way.  and  we  were 
hastening  to  meet  you. 

Mud.  Take  my  arm,  Countess! 

Gris.  [Obeying  and  apart.]  You  are  an  insolent  varlet,  Mudwit ! 
leave  this  room ! 

Mud.  [Aloud.]  No,  dear  angel  of  my  days  ! 

Gris.  [Aside  to  Mud.]  I’ll  have  you  whipped,  if  I have  to  cut  down 
the  forest  for  switches ! 

Mud.  No,  sweet  enchantress  of  my  nights  ! 

Gris.  Then  I’ll  confess  the  truth  to  the  Chevalier,  and  ask  him  to 
drown  you  in  the  mill-pond ! 

Mud.  I don’t  believe  it,  peerless  goddess  of  this  bursting  bosom  ! 

Gris.  My  husband  is  right,  Count ; he  reminds  me  that  this  is  the 
hour  when  I usually  take  my  siesta. 

Mud.  Yes,  sir,  it  is  high  time  that  my  Countess  and  I should  take 
our  diurnal  snooze. 

Gris.  Stop  a moment,  General.  You  asked  me  the  addres,  Count, 
of  the  saddler  of  our  village.  Let  me  write  it  for  you.  [ Writes. 

Caval.  [Aside.]  I asked  no  such  thing.  What  can  she  mean  T 

Gris.  Here  it  is.  Farewell,  sir,  for  the  present ; we  dine  at  five. 

[Exit  R.  H. 


13  ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

Caval.  [ After  glancing  at  the  paper.]  Stay,  a word  with  you,  Gen- 
eral. [ Reads , aside]  “ I commission  you,  Count,  to  pull  my  husband’s 
nose.  Do  it  thoroughly.”  What  an  extraordinary  idea  ! but  I must 
obey  ; am  I not  a knight  of  Malta,  bound  by  my  oath  to  execute  all 
feminine  behests,  whatever  they  may  be  1 General — 

Mud.  May  I beg  you  to  be  expeditious,  Connt,  for  I am  anxious  to 
rejoin  my  luscious  wife. 

Caval.  [Aside.]  He  wants  it  done  in  a hurry.  It’s  amazingly 
embararssing,  for  I haven’t  known  him  over  half  an  hour.  [Aloud.] 
General,  excuse  me,  but  I’m  a knight  of  Malta.  [Pulls  his  nose. 

Mud.  Don’t ! you  hurt ! what  do  you  mean,  sir  ! my  gracious,  how 
it  smarts ! 

Caval.  She  told  me  to  do  it  thoroughly.  General,  you  will  excuse 
me,  I know'.  [Pulls  his  nose  again. 

Mud.  Stop  it ! Do  you  take  my  nose  for  a bell-rope  1 Goodness 
me,  I believe  its  bleeding ! 

Caval.  [AsMe.]  He  does  not  seem  to  perceive  that  I have  insulted 
him  outright.  His  sufferings  before  Sebastopol  have  blunted  his 
perceptions.  Such  a husband  is  an  accessory  rather  than  an  obsta- 
cle. [Aloud.]  Sir,  I ask  your  pardon.  I beg  to  present  my  excuses  to 
your  outraged  and  inflamed  proboscis  ! Good  morning,  General  Count 
Chateaufqrt!  [Exit,  at  back. 

Mud.  My  chances  are  certainly  looking  up ! My  lady-love  menaces 
me  with  a bastinado,  and  talks  of  hewing  down  a forest  of  rattan  f 
then  she  threatens  me  with  the  vengeance  of  another,  who  will  drown 
me  in  the  mill-pond ! and  now  my  rival  has  actually  twreaked  my 
nose  ! Will  not  Griselda,  in  the  end,  be  touched  by  such  indignities 
suffered  in  her  cause  ^ Will  not  the  effulgence  of  a nose  pulled  in  her 
behalf,  appeal  irresistibly  to  her  sympathy ! It  will — it  must— -it 
shall ! [Going. ] I will  hasten  to  show  it  to  her,  while  yet  the  sunset 
is  upon  it.  [Exit,  s.  h» 


BYX>  OP  ACV  n. 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE; 


:s 


ACT  III. 


fl jm  Wtzktt 


SCENE  I. — Library , as  before.  ‘ 

Enter  Griseeda  and  Marietta,  l.  h. 

Gris.  [Seated  on  sofa.]  Marietta,  if  Mud  wit  dares  to  present  him- 
self before  me,  let  him  be  killed  ! 

Mar.  Very  well,  madame. 

Gris.  In  the  meantime,  let  his  house  be  set  on  fire ! Would  it  be  a 
crime  to  burn  his  house  down,  Marietta  % 

Mar.  Certainly  not,  madame.  . 

Gris.  What  have  I done  to  him  that  he  should  behave  as  he  does 1 
He  treats  me  like  a servant  before  this  young  man,  and  has  done  sc 
for  a fortnight. 

Mar.  That’s  easy  enough  to  explain ; he  loves  you,  madame,  and 
is  jealous  of  Count  Cavalcanti. 

Gris.  What ! Mudwit  'l  Ah,  dear  me  ! one  cannot  have  an  inten- 
dant,  it  seems,  now-a-days.  I wonder  if  there  is  any  truth  in  this 
business  of  the  Order  of  Malta  1 I have  never  thought  to  look ; Mar- 
ietta, give  me  one  of  those  large  red  books — the  letter  M — [ looking ] 
— M — Mai — Malta — Knight  of  Malta.  [Reading  to  herself,  and  then 
closing  book.]  Yes — it’s  quite  serious  ; they  can’t  marry. 

Mar.  What ! Oh!  [Crying.]  Lafleche  told  me  it  was  only  a banter 
— and  I believed  him.  [Crying  vehemently. 

Gris.  Well,  no  matter,  my  child,  there’s  no  harm  done. 

Mar.  Yes,  but  there  is,  madame ! How  lucky  I made  him  sign 
that  paper ! 

Gris.  What  singular  chances  there  are  in  this  world.  Here  is  this 
young  stranger,  bound  by  perpetual  vows,  and  yet  luck  will  have  it 
that  I like  him  better  than  any  man  I ever  saw — better  than  Victor. 
He  loves  me,  I feel  sure.  He  must  not  stay — it  would  be  unsafe  for 
us  both.  I must  dismiss  him,  once  and  for  all.  [Nite  at  desk,  and 
writes.]  “ I have  deceived  you,  Chevalier — I have  never  been  married 
— I am  free,  but  you  arer  not.  Farewell ; I will  not  see  you  again  un- 
der any  pretext.”  Marietta,  go  find  the  Count,  and  give  him  this 
note.  [Exit  Marietta,  at  back.]  Yes  ! he  loves  me  ; but  why  have  I 
listened  to  him,  knowing,  as  I did,  the  oath  by  which  he  was  bound  T 
I have  perhaps  destroyed  my  peace  of  mind  forever ! ; ^ 

Re-enter.  Marietta. 

Mar.  Madame,  I met  Lafleche,  the  Count’s  servant,  who  was  bring- 
ing you  a note  from  his  master.  We  exchanged  messages — here  is 
his, 

Gris.  [Reading.]  “ I have  deceived  you,  madame — I am  no  Knight 
of  Malta — 1 am  free,  but  you  are  not.  Farewell ; I must  see  you  no 
more.” 


20 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


Enter  Cavalcanti  and  Lafleche,  at  baeJc. 

Caved.  Oh,  Countess,  is  it  possible  ? 

Gris.  Oh,  Count,  is  it  credible?  [Exeunt  Marietta  and  Lafleche. 

Caved.  Tears  in  your  eyes,  Griselda  ? Let  me  forever  dry  your 
source  of  tears. 

Gris.  No,  let  them  flow  ; they  are  tears  of  joy.  [Cavalcanti  falls 
at  her  feet.]  No,  no,  Count;  here  by  my  side;  your  hand  in  mine, 
as  when  that  foolish  lawyer  interrupted  us.  What  color  are  my  eyes 
to-day  ? 

Coeval.  Heaven’s  own  azure,  Countess.  Ah,  Griselda,  what  a mira- 
cle hast  thou  wrought ! For  I,  subdued  and  converted  as  you  see 
me,  have  been  the  arrantest  reprobate  beneath  the  sun. 

Gris.  And  I the  arrantest  flirt.  This  is  a singular  age.  Is  the 
world  coming  to  an  end  ? 

Caved.  I cannot  tell ; but  I will  keep  your  hand  till  it  does  ! 

Gris.  There  are  certain  formalities  to  be  attended  to  first,  sir : 
You  must  write  to  your  father,  and  I must  ask  the  consent  of  my 
grandfather.  Sit  at  that  table,  and  write ; I will  write  here,  at  Ern- 
est’s desk. 

Caval.  This  is  a great  way  from  you. 

Gris.  Make  haste  and  finish,  then ! 

Caval.  “ My  dear  father ” 

Gris.  “ My  dear  grandfather ” 

Caval.  [ Reflecting .]  Oh,  yes  ! I love  her  most  certainly,  more  than 
probably ! 

Gris.  [Reflecting.]  We  are  going  to  be  married  ! He  was  not  a 
Knight  of  Malta.  I have  been  singularly  moved  to-day ! 

Caval.  She  is  decidedly  handsome  ; witty,  too,  and  with  a vein  of 
philosophy ! 

Gris.  He  is  attractive  in  person.  A large  foot — still  he  is  an  at- 
tractive man. 

Caval.  “ My  dear  father ” She  has  rather  a small  chin,  like 

a ballet-dancer  I once  knew ! 

Gris.  “ My  dear  grandfather ” You  are  not  writing,  Cheva- 

lier ? 

Coeval.  You  know  that  when  one  wishes  to  be  quick,  he  is  apt  to  be 
slow.  Oh,  I know  my  own  character — I shall  hate  her  chin — my  life 
will  be  harassed  by  that  chin  ! 

Gris.  I thought  him  original — he  is  merely  eccentric.  You  are 
not  writing,  Chevalier? 

Caval.  Nor  you,  either,  it  appears,  madame  ; your  paper  is  virgin 
white ! 

Gris.  I might  take  your  hesitation,  sir,  in  bad  part. 

Caval.  That  would  be  giving  me  an  uncomplimentary  explanation 
of  your  own,  madame. 

Gris.  [After  a silence.]  Your  foot  is  enormous,  Chevalier  ! 

Caval.  That  is  a reproach,  madame,  which  will  never  be  addressed 
to  your  chin ! 

Gris . Your  hat,  sir,  is  upon  that  chair  ! 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


21 


Caval.  Lafleche!  S’death,  sir,  the  horses  ! madame,  if  the  dream 
has  been  as  agreeable  to  you,  as  it  has  been  to  roe,  you  will  have  to 
exercise  your  clemency  in  pardoning  me  for  awaking  you  from  it ! 
Farewell ! [Exit  at  back  followed  by  Lafleche  and  Marietta — the 
latter  brandishing  her  paper. 

Gris.  Well,  this  is  a foolish  adventure,  happily  over  ! How  could 
I have  been  so  deceived,  for  I thought  I liked  him  'l 

Enter  Mud  wit,  with  a gray  wig. 

Mud.  It  was  a good  thought  of  mine,  to  wear  a gray  wig.  Colors 
have  a meaning,  if  people  only  understood  the  language  of  the  prism. 
What  does  gray  mean  1 It  means  experience,  ripeness,  discretion. 
What  does  the  black  hair  of  Cavalcadando  mean  1 It  means  youth, 
folly,  and  inconstancy ; it  means  that  he  is  a cadet,  a minor,  a cod- 
ling ; and  besides,  he’s  a Knight  of  Malta.  Bless  me,  here  she  is ! 
Griselda,  dear ! 

Gris.  Mr.  Mudwit,  I have  told  Count  Cavalcanti  that  you  are  not 
my  husband.  There  is  no  longer  any  occasion,  therefore,  for  this 
ridiculous  masquerade. 

Mud.  [Aside.]  She’s  sorry  it  is  only  a masquerade  ! She  wishes 
it  were  real.  [Aloud.]  Sweet  Griselda!  lift  your  eyes  for  a moment 
upon  the  silvery  locks  which  surmount  this  ample  brow ! 

Gris.  Ah!  It’s  a gray  wig,  to-day,  is  it  I 

Mud.  Gray,  madame,  is  typical  of  the  ravages  you  have  wrought 
in  this  brain,— of  the  havoc  you  have  left  in  this  heart ! Gray  is  the 
color  of  sober  middle  age : it  is  a sort  of  human  russet  that  the  skull 
of  man  assumes  in  the  autumn  of  his  life ! I am  ripe,  Griselda ; 
Cavalcado  is  but  a raw,  unseasoned  youth  ! But  though  I am  ripe, 
Griselda,  do  not  think  me  overdone ; I have  lost  none  of  the  gentle 
powers  which 

Gris.  Mr.  Mudwit,  I have  borne  with  your  absurdities  long  enough ! 
Now  listen : I commissioned  one  lover  to  pull  your  nose — I'll  order 
the  next  to  cut  your  ears  off!  [Exit,  r.  h. 

Mild.  One  thing  is  certain,  gray  isn’t  her  favorite  color ; and  there’s 
only  one  left  that  I haven’t  tried  ! — the  color  of  blaze  and  conflagra- 
tion ! I’ll  have  a red  wig ! I’ll  wrap  my  caput  in  incendiary  flames,  if 
I have  to  be  hung  for  arson ! I’ll  be  the  modern  Salamander,  and 
ignite  the  neighborhood  with  the  fierce  radiance  of  my  cranium  ! 
The  fountain  shall  sizzle  at  my  approach,  and  the  cistern  emit  vapor 
as  I pass!  I’ll  be  red  hot  and  carbonize  creation!  If  Griselda 
doesn’t  melt  then,  it’s  because  there’s  no  melt  in  her  ! [Exit,  l.  h. 

Enter  Ernest,  in  farmer's  costume,  with  a pitchfork. 

Em.  Ah  ha ! My  hay  is  in,  and  my  barns  are  full ! Was  their 
ever  such  splendid  exercise  as  hay  making ! It  beats  billiards  ! 
There’s  your  true  billiard  cue ! [Showing  the  pitchfork.]  Darius 
now,  knows  which  is  my  hay,  for  he’ll  touch  no  other.  I wish  that 
late  wheat  I sowed  would  come  up.  It’s  been  under  ground  long 
enough,  one  would  think.  I believe  wheat  won’t  come  up  for  a 
gentleman,  and  only  grows  for  farmers,  However,  I’ve  got  a boy  to 


22 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

watch,  and  come  and  tell  me  the  moment  it’s  up.  Ah  ! this  is  a great 
life!  I work  like  a Trojan ; I eat  like  a coal-heaver  and  I sleep  like  atop. 
If  I were  but  reconciled  to  Louise,  I believe  I should  be  the  happiest 
man  in  the  canton  ! [Takes  a white  kid  glove  from  his  pocket.]  She 
wore  this  glove  about  a week  ago,  the  first  time  I ever  saw  her 
waltz.  For  a Christian,  she  is  very  fond  of  waltzing.  When  she  stops 
to  take  breath,  little  shudders  of  impatience  run  over  her  shoulders, 
and  make  them  quiver  like  watered  silk.  The  man  that  invented  the 
waltz  was  not  married.  I wish  Victor  would  answer  the  letter  in 
which  I told  him  I wanted  to  make  a frank  confession  to  Louise. 
I’ll  do  it,  if  he  but  give  me  encouragement.  She’s  19  years  old  to- 
day, and  I might  honestly  own  up  at  her  rustic  ball  to-night.  Hallo  ! 
here  she  comes  ! and  a letter  in  her  hand ! She  seems  quite  tickled 
with  it  too.  I wonder  who  it’s  from.  [ Retiring  up. 

Enter  Louise,  with  a letter. 

Louise.  [Reading  aside.]  “ My  pride  has  fled  ; heaven  has  humbled 
it  by  giving  me  a child  for  a guide.  I love  her  ! I love  her !” 

[She  presses  the  letter  to  her  bosom. 

Em.  Hey  day  ! what’s  this  1 

Louise.  [Reading.]  “The  truth  must  out!  I collect  relics  and 
souvenirs ! I live  upon  flowers  that  she  has  touched  and  upon  gloves 
that  she  drops.  Oh,  I am  her  secret  and  fervent  disciple,  and  when 
my  lips  aspire  to  what  her  hand  has  pressed,  I almost  feel  that  I am 
outraging  with  sacrilegious  thought,  the  hallowed  purity  of  my  vestal 
wife!”  [Kisses  the  letter. 

Em.  Can  I believe  my  eyes  1 

Louise.  [Reading.]  “I  shall  execute  my  design,  on  receiving  an 
encouraging  reply  from  you,  for  I wish  to  make  a full  and  frank  con- 
fession to  Louise.  I swear  to  you  that  my  life  hangs  upon  her  reply. 
Farewell.”  Dear,  dear  Ernest!  [Pwtfs  the  letter  in  her  bosom. 

Em.  Damnation ! [Coming  forward. 

Louise.  [Aside.]  Ernest  here ! Perhaps  he  received  the  encourage- 
ment he  wanted  by  the  same  mail.  [Aloud.]  Good  afternoon,  Ernest ! 

Em.  [Aside.]  Tears  in  her  eyes,  emotion  in  her  voice,  and  the 
letter  in  her  bosom  ! A malediction  on  the  hand  that  wrote  it ! 

Louise.  [Aside.]  He  seems  afraid  to  begin. 

Em.  [Aside.]  But  let  me  exhaust  every  possible  supposition,  be- 
fore proceeding  to  extremities ! I wanted  to  ask  you,  Louise,  if  you 
have  heard  from  your  grandfather,  lately  1 

Louise.  Yes,  I heard  from  him  to-day. 

Em.  [Much  relieved.]  Ah ! You  had  a letter  from  him  just  now  ! 

Louise.  No,  but  I met  Mr.  Bernard  at  the  village,  this  morning, 

, and  he  told  me  that  he  had  seen  grandpa  last  week,  and  that  he  looked 
younger  than  ever.  [Aside.]  Why  does  he  talk  about  grandpa,  I 
wonder ! 

Em.  [Aside.]  Rot  grandpa  ! [Aloud.]  I have  sometimes  thought, 
Louise,  that  you  must  miss  the  young  friends  that  you  knew  before 
our  marriage.  Don’t  you  think  you’d  better  renew  intercourse  with 
them  by  correspondence'!  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  receive 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE,  23 

letter  from  a schoolmate  ! — Perhaps  you  have  already  done  so  I 

Louise.  No,  I have  no  acquaintances  but  those  of  the  village,  and 
the  environs,  and  I have  received  no  letter. 

Ern.  [Aside.]  A lie,  now,  to  complete  the  infamy  ! 

Enter  Marietta,  hastily. 

Mar.  He’s  come,  madame. 

Louise.  Hush!  [They  whisper.]  Why,  then,  I must  interrupt  Ern- 
est’s full  and  frank  confession  before  he  has  even  begun  it.  Good 
bye,  Ernest ; there  will  be  company  to  dinner. 

[Exeunt  Louise  and  Marietta. 

Em.  Company  to  dinner ! as  if  I cared  for  company  or  dinner 
either.  My  wife  has  a lover,  that’s  clear.  Whoever  he  is,  he  is  ab- 
sent, as  is  evident  from  the  letters  he  writes.  That  accounts  for  her 
contentment  and  placidity — she  was  enjoying  the  zest  of  a forbid- 
bidden  intrigue.  I would  as  soon  allow  my  wife  a passion  as  an  idyl ; 
a fancy  as  a paramour — the  treachery  is  the  same.  [Mud wit  crosses 
the  stage  without.  ] Mr.  Mud  wit,  come  here. 

Enter  Mudwit. 

Can  you  tell  me',  sir,  whether  Madame  Devereux  had  any  gentlemen 
correspondents  before,  or  at  the  time  of,  her  marriage  with  me  1 

Mud.  She  used  to  have  dealings,  by  letter,  with  the  butcher,  the 
miller,  and  the  agent  of  the  Liquid  Manure  Company. 

Em.  Tush,  sir;  that’s  not  what  I ask— I wish  to  know  if,  among 
her  acquaintances,  as  a girl,  there  were  any  who  would  be  likely  to 
continue  their  intimacy  with  her  :as  a wife  I 

Mud:  I know  of  none — except,  perhaps,  her 'grandfather. 

Em.  Mr.  Mudwit,  my  wife  receives  letters,  which  I have  reason  to 
think  are  such  that  she  cannot  show  them  to  her  husband.  Have  you 
any  idea-- who  they  can  be  from 'l 

Mud.  [Reflects.]  Perhaps  from  Count  Cavalcanti — he  is  absent  at.in- 
tervals.  [Aside.]  Perhaps  he’ll  get  his  nose  pulled  now. 

Ern.  Pshaw  ! sir.  He  is  in  love  with  my  sister-in-law ; I thought 
you  knew  that. 

Mud.  Know  it'l  l should  think  I .did.  But  then  the  Count  has 
been  a great  traveler,  sir.  He  has  visited  Constantinople,  where  they 
have  a plurality  of  wives,  and  has  been  among  the  Mormons  at  Salt 
River,  where  one  man  thinks  himself  equal  to  half-a-dozen  women,  at 
least ! He  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Brigham  Young.  Who 
knows  what  polygamian  notions  he  may  not  have  brought  back  1 
[Aside. J I hope  it  is  Louise,  and  not  Griselda,  he’s  in  love  with. 

Ern.  I might  have  known  I should  be  no  wiser  for  consulting  this 
addle-pate. 

Mud.  [Ijoohing  off.]  Sir ! sir ! look  here ! 

Ern.  .A  m,an  cloaked  to  the  eyes,  and  entering  by  Louise’s  private 
door ! And  tinder  the  guidance  of  Marietta ! And  it  was  Marietta  that 
came  to  summon  her  under  my  very  nose.  Well,  I’m  glad  of  it. 
Weak  and  vacillating  as  I have  been  in  presence  of  doubt  and  uncer- 
. tainty,  I hope  the  fact  and  the  evidence  will  find  me  resolute  and 
unflinching.  Ah,  madame,  that  was  going  a step  too  far  ! Conscience 


24 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


and  generosity  are  dead  within  me,  and  we  must  meet — husband, 
wife,  and  lover — face  to  face ! [Exit,  at  back. 

Mud.  [Calling  after  him.]  It’s  Count  Cavalcanti,  sir.  He’s  gummy 
in  thfe  knees,  and  I know  his  walk.  He’ll  get  something  else  pulled 
besides  his  nose,  I’ll  be  sworn ! J’H  go  and  tell  Griselda  the  news. 
But  stay  ! [ Taking  off  his  gray  wig.]  This  thing  was  an  unmitigated 
flam  ; I’ll  try  my  last.  [Draws  a tremendous  red  wig  from  his  pocket, 
puts  it  on,  and  rubsh  is  hands  through  it.]  Ah,  ha ! I rather  think 
that  this  will  do.  Would  that  it  were  but  dyed  in  Cavalcanti’s  blood ! 
And  now  to  melt  Griselda.  I am  the  torrid  zone  ; Griselda  must 
simmer  now,  not  to  say  swelter.  [Exit,  at  back. 

SCENE  II. — A Shady  Lane — Evening. 

Enter  Louise  and  Victor — the  latter  cloaked — l.  h. 

Vic.  So  you  see,  my  dear  sister — I won’t  call  you  sister-in-law — as 
I saw  from  my  brother’s  last  letter,  that  the  finale  of  your  little  drama 
was  approaching,  I thought  I would  come  and  help  you  through  with 
it. 

Louise.  I’m  glad  you’ve  come ; poor  Ernest  is  in  a terrible  state ; 
he’s  jealous  at  last ; and  I don’t  think  he  would  be  jealous  of  me,  un- 
less he  loved  me,  do  you  1 

Vic.  No;  unless,  instead  of  the  lover’s  agonizing  fears,  his  jealousy 
were  merely  the  husband’s  offended  pride.  But  I don’t  think  that’s 
likely. 

Louise.  It’s  well  it  is  so ; for  it  is  not  easy  to  play  a part  for  six 
long  weeks,  and  live  on  in  a false  position  from  month  to  month.  I’m 
nineteen  years  old  to-day,  Victor;  try  and  reconcile  us  to-night, 
won’t  you  ? 

Vic.  Ah ! then  it’s  your  birth-day,  is  it  1 That  accounts  for  the 
stir  I noticed  in  the  village — the  peasants  in  their  holiday  costumes, 
a sort  of  May-pole  on  the  green,  and  a general  festive  aspect  all 
around.  I saw,  too,  a blind  fiddler  coming  towards  the  chateau. 

Louise.  Yes,  we’re  to  have  a ball  in  our  big  barn ; I am  going  there 
now,  to  see  that  all  is  ready.  You  shall  hide  in  the  hay  and 
watch  the  finale  of  my  little  drama,  as  you  call  it.  I’ve  come  pre- 
pared ; you’ll  not  have  long  to  wait.  Come ! 

Vic.  Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  Good  luck  attend  you. 

[Exeunt,  r.  h. 

Enter  Ernest,  l.  h. 

Em.  She  had  fled  before  I reached  the  chamber;  but  I have 
tracked  them  thus  far,  and  they  must  be  near  by.  Oh  ! that  Louise, 
whom  I took  to  be  so  modestly  chaste,  should  be  so  precociously  cor- 
rupt ! Ah ! Louise ! Like  the  wounded  Gladiator,  I must  try,  at 
least,  to  fall  with  dignity  ! [Exit,  R.  h. 

Enter  Marietta,  l.  h.,  carrying  flowers  and  wreaths,  and  Cook 
with  hamper  of  bottles. 

Cook.  Stay  a moment,  Marietta ; bear  in  mind  that  these  bottles 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


25 


are  full,  and  put  a stopper  upon  rapid  locomotion.  When  I asked 
Madame  Devereux  what  I should  give  the  villagers  for  supper,  she 
said  in  her  sweet  voice  : “ Give  them  the  best  you  have,  Robert,  and 
plenty  of  it.”  When  I asked  Mr.  Ernest  the  same  question,  he  said, 
with  a scowl:  “ A barrel  of  sour  wine,  and  be  damned  to  you.” 

Mar.  That’s  the  difference  between  master  and  missis.  I don’t 
think  much  of  your  fundamental  culinary  principle — a good  di- 
gestion. Come,  you  must  be  rested,  now,  and  madame  went  an  hour 
ago.  [CooK^nc&s  up  his  basket.]  But  what’s  the  use  of  a good  diges- 
tion, if  you’ve  got  a bad  heart  'l  Oh  ! that  deceitful  Lafleche  ! 

Cook.  Never  mind,  Marietta ; let  this  atone.  [Kisses  her. 

Mar.  [Slapping  his  face.]  Aha  ! just  you  try  that  again,  that’s  all ! 

[ Exeunt , r.  ii. 

SCENE  III. — A barn,  decorated  and  illuminated i cleared  for  a 

dance ; folding  doors  at  back , closed  ; heap  of  straw  in  one  corner; 

sacks  of  corn  at  back. 

Enter  Louise  and  Victor. 

Louise.  Here  we  are,  and  everything  seems  in  order.  Mind,  Victor, 
you  are  not  to  be  discovered  here;  you  must  hide  if  you  hear  any- 
body  coming.  Hark  ! [They  listen.]  I hear  footsteps  ! It  may  be  he. 
Hide;  quick  ! [Victor  conceals  himself  behind  the  sacks  of  corn. 

Enter  Ernest,  suddenly. 

Ern.  [Aside.]  Alone!  [To  Louise.]  You  did  not  expect  me, 
madame. 

Louise.  I did  not ; but  what  means  this  sudden  intrusion  I It  is 
not  your  way  to  be  discourteous  to  a woman ! 

Ern.  Have  no  fears  for  yourself. 

I/ouise.  I have  nothing  to  fear. 

Ern.  Are  you  sure  of  that  1 

Ijouise.  You  say  so,  yourself;  besides,  I have  your  solemn  promise. 

Ern.  But  have  you  not  forgotten  the  conditions  of  that  promise  1 

Louise.  I do  not  think  I have. 

Ern.  Listen,  madame.  I promised  you  your  liberty  and  my  own 
indifference ; but  you  already  bore  my  name — a name,  madame, 
which  no  woman  ever  yet  disgraced  with  impunity.  Suppose  I were 
to  exact  an  account  of  your  guardianship  of  my  honor,  would  you 
dare  reply  I 

Ijouise.  Yes,  Ernest. 

Ern.  Well,  then,  speak.  The  dreams  that  you  reproached  me  fof 
not  encouraging,  you  have  dreamed  them  with  another.  You  have 
experienced  the  emotions  of  a romantic  love,  and  you  have  dwelt  at 
last  in  a castle  in  the  clouds. 

Louise.  Oh,  yes!  Listen,  Ernest;  I will  confess  all.  Step  by  step 
I have  followed  the  path  in  which  you  refused  to  be  my  guide ; there 
I have  found,  and  accompanied  on  their  way,  the  sweet  realities 
which  you  declared  to  be  but  phantoms ! Oh ! I have  known  what 
intoxication  there  is  in  tears, — what  mortal  anguish  may  exist  in  a 


26 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


word, — what  infinite  hope  may  be  kindled  by  a glance ! I have  known 
the  luxury  of  love, — for  I have  loved  and  been  beloved  ! 

Em.  I listen,  madame ; and  you  will  do  justice  to  my  forbearance, 
I trust ! Your  excuse  is  in  the  aberration  of  your  mind,  and  the  vio- 
lence of  your  language.  You  have  found  the  romance  you  sought. 
Very  well.  Madame,  you  have  received  letters  unknown  to  me, — 
love  letters  ! I have  seen  you  kiss  them,  and  press  them  to  your  bo- 
som. Give  me  those  letters  ! 

Louise.  But  consider,  Ernest,  what  my  married  life  has  been 

Em.  Give  me  those  letters  ! 

Louise.  I confess  it.  I have  received  letters ; twenty  of  them,  at 
least. 

Em.  Confess,  madame,  that  he  who  wrote  them  was  a heartless, 
designing  villain ! 

Louise.  Oh  ! I’ll  confess  that ! 

Em.  Some  rascal,  doubtless,  who  has  a wife  of  his  own  ! 

Louise.  He  has.  But,  Ernest,  spare  him ; my  life  is  bound  up  in 
his.  I love  him  tenderly,  devotedly,  eternally  ! 

Em.  Enough  of  this  ! I am  beside  myself ! Give  me  the  letters ! 

Ijouise.  [Drawing  from  her  pocket  a number  of  letters,  stitched  to- 
gether in  book  form. ] Here  they  are,  Ernest ; kill  me  now,  if  you  can  ! 

[Falls  upon  her  knees. 

Em.  [Reading  from  the  cover  of  the  letters .]  “Romance  after 
Marriage  ; or,  The  Maiden  Wife.  A Novel,  in  Twenty  Chapters  By 
Ernest  Devereux.” 

Louise.  [ Interrupting .]  No,  here’s  the  twentieth  ! 

[Drawing  letter  from  her  bosom. 

Em.  My  letters  to  Victor ! My  confession ! Oh ! the  idiot  that  I 
have  been  ! [Drops  upon  his  knees.]  Louise,  can  you,  can  you  forgive 
me  1 [ They  embrace. 

Vic.  [Rising  behind  the  sacks  of  wheat,  and  extending  his  arms  in 
benediction.]  Bless  you,  my  children  ! 

Em.  [Rising.]  Ah  f Victor  ! [Falls  upon  his  neck. 

Vic.  I sent  your  letters  back,  Ernest.  Do  you  forgive  me  my  ap- 
parent treachery  1 

Em.  Ah  ! Victor,  you  and  Louise  are  of  the  saints  of  earth. 

Enter  Griselda,  hastily. 

Gris.  Bless  me  ! So  it’s  settled  at  last  'l 

Louise.  Come  in  this  corner,  Ernest,  where  Griselda  cannot  hear. 

Gris.  You  here,  Victor ! But  I have  no  time  to  talk  to  you  now; 
That  horrid  Knight  of  Malta,  whom  I dismissed  to-day,  has  just  come 
back,  and  I ran  here  for  refuge.  I don’t  want  to  see  him. 

Enter  Marietta. 

Mar.  Madame,  Count  Cavalcanti  and  his  servant  have  returned  and 
I have  brought  them  here. 

Enter  Cavalcanti  and  Lafleche. 

Caval.  [To  Griselda.]  Madame,  deign  to  listen  to  the  abject  re- 
fraction of  a repentant  and  contrite  sinner. 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  27 

Gris.  I won’t  listen  to  you,  sir  ! [Aside.]  After  all  there  is  nothing 
very  extravagant  in  his  foot. 

Caval.  [Aside.]  On  second  thoughts,  I see  nothing  objectionable  in 
her  chin. 

Gris.  Are  you  in  earnest,  Count  I 

Caval.  Oh  ! put  me  to  the  test ! 

Gris.  [Looking  at  his  boots.]  You  wear  sixes  and  a half,  I believe  ? 

Caval.  Fives  and  a quarter,  madame. 

Gris.  Well,  then,  I consent.  Here  is  my  hand. 

Caval.  [ With  rapture.]  Countess,  do  you  know  what,  at  this  mo- 
ment, is  your  most  beautiful  featured 

Gris.  My  eyes.  You’ve  told  me  so  often  ! 

Caval.  No,  Countess,  your  chin  ! [Retire  up. 

Enter  Mudwit. 

Mad.  Vesuvius  never  was  more  ready  for  an  eruption  than  I am  ! 
I feel  as  if  I could  boil  over,  and  spout  lava  for  a century ! If  Ned, 
the  bull,  were  to  see  my  hair,  he’d  go  stark  mad,  as  he  did  the  day 
*he  dairy  maid  wore  a red  flannel-petticoat ! But  will  not  Griselda, 
now  that  she  is  relieved  of  that  tedious  Cavalcadido,  listen  with  in- 
terest to  my  inflammable  tale,  and  look  with  favor  upon  my  rubicund 
head  1 To  doubt  it  would  be  to  wrong  her ! I’ll  speak  to  her  at 
once!  [Turns  and  meets  Griselda  and  Cavalcanti. 

Gris.  I once  presented  Count  Cavalcanti  to  you,  Mr.  Mudwit, 
asserting  that  you  were  my  husband  ; that  time  it  was  false  ! I now 
present  you  to  him,  asserting  that  he  is  my  husband  ; this  time  it  is 
true ! 

Mud.  Oh!  Griselda!  Oh,  Count ! Don’t  marry  her  ! I’ve  known 
her  longer  than  you ! I love  her  more  than  whole  squads  of  you  ever 
'•'"aid ! It’s  bursting  out  all  over  me ; it’s  turned  my  hair  to  fire,  and 
my  brain  to  ashes  ! Oh  ! what  shall  I do  ! I shall  go  as  crazy 
Bedlam  ! I can’t  survive  it ! I’d  commit  self-destruction  if  I only 
knew  of  some  easy  means  of  death ! 

Shout  within.  Hurrah  for  Madame  Devereux  ! 

Louise.  [Coming  down  with  Ernest.]  Well,  as  it  is  all  happily 
settled,  Ernest,  let  us  invite  our  good  people  yonder  to  share  our 

. joy. 

Em.  Oh  yes;  let’s  have  them  in,  by  all  means.  [Opens  folding 
doors , displaying  tables  bountifully  set , and  surrounded  by  peasants, 
who  come  forward. 

Enter  Bov,  with  lantern , excitedly. 

Boy.  Oh,  sir,  it’s  up  ! 

Em.  What’s  up  ? 

Boy.  The  vheat ; I see’d  two  green  slivers  of  it  a-sticking  up  out 
of  the  ground,  so  high.  [Marks  half  an  inch  on  his  finger. 

Em.  Hurrah,  boys,  my  wheat’s  up!  [They  shout.  To  Louise.] 
We’ll  have  dumplings  from  that  wheat  next  Christmas. 

Mar.  [To  Griselda.]  Madame,  wouldn’t  you  be  good  enough  to 
make  Mr.  Lafleche  keep  his  promises  1 He  isn’t  behaving  at  all 


28 


ROMANCE  AFTER  MARRIAGE, 


right,  madame,  and  if  you  would  just  tell  him,  madame,  that  though 
people  can  break  promises  when  they  only  speak  them,  they  can’t  get 
off  so  easily  when  they  put  them  down  on  paper. 

Gris.  Why,  has  he  made  you  a promise  on  paper,  child  % 

Mar.  Yes,  madame,  here  it  is — in  his  own  handwriting. 

Gris.  Here,  Mr.  Mudwit,  you  are  the  legal  gentleman  of  the  party, 
road  this  formidable  document. 

Mud.  [Reads.]  “ On  demand,  I promise  to  marry  Marietta  Blangy. 
Value  received.”  Marry  her,  then,  you  rascal.  Who  on  earth  ever 
should  marry,  if  not  those  who  know  the  value  of  a wife  1 
Em.  Come,  a dance! 

Louise.  Stay  a moment,  Ernest.  Griselda,  come  here.  [To  the 

public.]  Romance  Before  Marrriage 

Gris.  As  in  my  case 

Louise.  Or,  Romance  After  Marriage,  as  in  mine,  which  is  the  best 
to  have  T Most  ladies,  I am  told — the  very  reverse  of  me — get  an 
abundance  of  the  former,  and  very  little  of  the  latter.  From  what  I 
gather  from  them  of  the  charms  of  Romance  before  Marriage,  and 
from  what  I know  of  the  quiet  ecstacy  of  that  Romance  which  may 
sometimes  follow  and  survive  it,  I feel  that  in  taking  my  leave,  I am 
uttering  a beneficent  wish,  when  invoking  for  all  the  women  that 

hear  me — whether  maids  or  wives 

Gris.  Romance  Before 

Louise.  And  Romance  After  Marriage 

0 aval,  and  Em.  Both ! 


Disposition  of  the  Characters : 

Twit,  Caval.  Griselra.  Ernest.  Louise.  Victor.  Mar.  Lafi.. 
Mere  a Rustic  Dance  may  be  introduced. 


THE  BMP. 


The  Bbigajtd. 

Massaroni.  Back,  all  of  you,  I say ! Are  ye  mad, 
that  ye  would  make  me  bid  you  twice  1 
Act  I.  Scene  2 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD  DRAMA 


THE  ACTING  EDlTIO®. 

No.  CLXXXVIII. 


THE 

BRIGAND, 

21  Eomantti  JDrama,- 

IN  TWO  ACTS. 


BY  J.  R.  PLANCHiJ, 

AtTTHOR  OF  CHARLES  XII,  MASON  OF  BUDA,  dzC.  AC.  AC. 


In  this  edition  of  Acting  Plays  will  he  found  the  most  complete  Stags 
Directions,  Editorial  Notes,  Scene  and  Property  Plots,  Diagrams 
qf  Sets,  Time  of  Representation,  Costume,  Situations,  fyc.  d^c.; 
being  the  first  Dramatic  work  ever  issued  in  England 
or  America,  with  such  complete  Directions  for 
Stage  Managers,  Prompters,  fyc. 


New  Y oh  It  i 

SAMUEL  FRENCH  & SON, 

publishers, 

*38  EAST  Hth  STREET. 


Lon oo^  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,, 

publisher, 

89,  STRAND 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 


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Time— 1 1).  40  m. 

The  Music  ofthis  Drama,  composed  by  Mr.  Thomas  Cooke,  of  Drury  Lane,  ma  behad  of  Mr  T G^odwis,  Music' Compos® 
Publisher  and  Dealer*  No.  7 Yarn  lam  street*  N-  Y. 


oi r) e Briganb. — Costume. 

PRINCE  BIANCHI.— Austrian  governor’s  full  dress  suit,  white,  turned  up  with 
red  and  gold;  white  waistcoat  ; while  kerseymere  breeches ; white  silk  stockings, 
shoes  and  buckles;  lace  ruffles;  white  neckcloth  ; crimson  sash;  order. 

ALBERT. — First  dress:  Gray  surtout,  with  black  braiding;  foraging  cap  of  the 
Bame  ; light  pantaloons  of  same  ; Hessian  boots.  Second  dress  : Brown  dress  coat ; 
white  waistcoat ; black  breeches  and  stockings  ; dress  shoes;  opera  hat. 

THEODORE — First  di-ess : Light  orange  surtout  ; cap  ; pantaloons  ; Hessian 
boots.  Second  dress : Blue  dress  coat;  white  waistcoat;  white  breeches  and 
stockings  ; dress  shoes  ; opera  hat. 

NICOLO. — First  dress : Canvass  shirt,  with  left  arm  bare  ; a brown  jacket 
thrown  over  the  left  shoulder;  ragged  drab  patched  waistcoat;  red  breeches, 
patched  and  torn  ; blue  stockings  ; old  shoes  ; slouch  hat ; a very  large  staff.  Se- 
cond dress  : Oldman’s  chocolate  suit ; blue  striped  stockings;  gray  wig;  shoes 
and  buckles. 

EABIO. — Old  fashioned  blue  suit,  with  brass  buttons;  white  stockings;  shoes 
and  buckles ; gray  wig. 

ALLESSANDRO  MASSARONI.— Green  velvet  jacket  and  breeches ; red  striped 
waistcoat;  large  red  sash  round  the  waist;  canvass  stockings  ; sandals;  high  Span- 
ish hat,  with  feathers  and  ribbons  ; a cross  suspended  by  a chain  ; several  orders ; 
watches  ; loose  handkerchief  hanging  round  his  neck  ; pistols  ; stillettos,  &c. 

RUB ALDO,  SPOLETTO,  and  CARLOTTI  — Chocolate  jacket;  red  waistcoat 
and  breeches;  sandals;  orders,  &c.  ; similar  to  Massaroni,  but  inferior. 

BRIGANDS.— Ibid , with  different  colored  breeches. 

CARDINAL  SECRETARY.— Clerical  black  suit,  with  velvet  cloak  attached  to 
the  back  ; red  silk  stockings ; order  of  the  cross,  with  blue  ribbon ; band ; ruffles ; 
ehoesand  buckles;  cardinal’s  hat ; cane;  wig. 

COUNT  CARRAFA. — Full  dress  court  suit ; bag,  sword,  &c. 

OFFICER  OF  IBIRL— Austrian  officer’s  uniform. 

SERVANTS  TO  THE  PRINCE.— Green  yager’s  dresses. 

SERVANTS  TO  DITTO.— Splendid  white  liveries;  waistcoat;  black  velvet 
smallclothes  ; white  silk  stockings,  &c. 

GUESTS.— Full  dress  ball  suits. 

OTTAVIA.— White  satin  full  dress,  with  pink  and  silver  trimming  of  flowers 
round  the  skirt. 

MARIA  GRAZIE.— White  muslin  body  ; red  petticoat,  trimmed  with  black  vel- 
vet ; white  apron,  with  gold  binding  and  fringe ; red  silk  stockings  ; Neapolitan  cap. 

PEASANTS. — White  bodies;  colored  petticoats;  white  aprons;  colored  stock- 
ings ; Neapolitan  caps. 

GUESTS  — Full  ball  dresses  of  white,  &c. 


Properties. 

ACT  I. 

■Carbine,  pistols,  stilletto,  dice  and  dice-box,  purse  and  whistle 
for  Massaroni ; carbines  and  pistols  for  Brigands  ; flask  with 
wine,  and  horn  at  rock,  l.,  for  Maria ; practicable  long  staff, 
with  gold  pieces  in  it,  for  Nicoli. 

Portfolios  for  Theodore  and  Albert ; stilletto  for  Maria. 

Whips  to  crack,  u.  e.  r.  ; baskets  of  provisiensfor  female  peas- 
antry ; money  and  trinkets  for  Brigands. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  1. — Large  easy  chair  on  c. ; morocco  case,  with  brilliants,  toe 
Prince  B. 


Scene  1. — 


Scene  2. — 
Scene  3. — 


iv 

Scene  3 


Wings. 

Wood. 


Wood. 

Garden. 

Hall. 

Fancy. 


THE  BRIGAND. 

. — Portrait  of  female,  concealed  "by  red  curtain,  hanging  over 
sliding  panel,  l.  ; card  table,  l..  morocco  case,  with  pair  of 
rich  bracelets,  cards,  candelabra  with  lighted  candles,  and  a 
guitar  on — four  chairs  around  table;  on  r.  a table — cards, 
candelabra  with  lighted  candles  on — chairs  ; paintings  hung 
around  chamber;  three  letters  for  Massaroni ; refreshments — • 
wine,  &c ■ — for  servants  to  offer  guests  ; rouleaus  of  money  on 
tables ; jewelled  snuff-box  for  Count  Carrafa ; Theodore’s 
sketch-book,  with  crayon  sketch  of  Massaroni  for  Ottavia ; 
miniature  case  for  Massaroni;  eight  guns  for  soldiers,  four  sure 
fire  ; blood  ready  at  1 e.  l.  for  Massaroni ; crucifix  for  Maria. 


Seen  e |3  lot 


Scenes. 

1 


ACT  I. 

Sea,  (mist,  which  clears  away  after  first 
chorus,)  in 

Rocks,  setR.  and  l.,  intermingled  with  trees 
and  shrubs,  in  3d  and  4th  entrances. 
Large  oak  tree  on  brink  of  precipice,  set 
c. ; branches  of  tree  stretching  over  an 
abyss,  r.  ; fragments  of  rock  under  tree, 
c.  ; piece  of  slate  sunk  in  bank,  c. 

[Note. — This  scene  should  be  a very  ef- 
fective one , if  properly  set , and  is  entire- 
ly dependent  for  its  effect  upon  the  taste 
of  the  Stage  Manager  and  his  assistants, 
combined  with  the  size  of  the  stage  and 
the  resources  of  the  theatre  as  regards 
scenery , fyc.,  <Spc.,  fyc.  Managers  are 
referred  to  No.  1 of  Bastlake’s  series 
of  pictures,  viz.,  “ The  Italian  Brigand 
Chief  Reposing fyc. , for  the  situations 
of  the  characters  at  rising  of  curtain, 
and  to  No.  2 of  the  same  series,  “ The 
Wife  of  a Brigand  Chief  watching  the 
result  of  a Battle fyc.,for  the  close  of 
scene. — Ed] 

Ruins  of  a Roman  Temple  and  distant  coun- 
try in 

Same  as  scene  first  in 


Groove. 


ACT  II. 

Terrace  in 

Corridor  in 

Handsome  apartment ; folding  doors  c f\  ; 
windows  down  to  floor  each  side  of  folding 
doors  ; sliding  panel,  l ; farther  up  l.  a 
window  a few  feet  from  the  ground  with 
heavy  bars  ; two  doors  r.  ; all  the  doors 
and  windows  to  fasten  in 

Backed  by  garden  in 


THE  BBIGAND 


Overture  to  “ Fra  JDiavolo ,”  played  seven  minutes. 

Lights  half  down ; raised  very  gradually.  Curtain  rises 
slowly,  after  eight  bars. 

ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

The  Summit  of  the  Mountain  of  Guadagnola — the  Mediter- 
ranean seen  through  a mist  in  the  distance — large  masses  of 
rocks,  intermingled,  with  trees,  shrubs,  and  underwood , l.  u. 
e. — a large  oak-tree  on  the  brink  of  a precipice,  c.,  its 
branches  stretching  over  the  abyss , towards  r. — -fragments  of 
rock  under  the  tree,  c. 

Alessandro  Massaroni  discovered  sleeping  on  the  rock  un- 
der the  tree,  c. — Maria  Grazie,  his  wife,  seated  by  his 
side,  l.,  watching  him,  and  a Brigand  on  guard,  by  his 
side,  r. — Forming  the  first  picture  from  Eastlake's  Series , 
uAn  Italian  Brigand  Chief  reposing fyc. 

Round — Enter  Brigands,  r.  and  l.,  one  by  one,  as  required 
by  the  music. 

Lo  ! morn  is  breaking! 

Slowly  awaking, 

Night’s  veil  dividing, 

O’er  ocean  gliding, 

Steals  the  first  lia'ht  of  the  new-coming  day. 

[The  mist  in  the  distance  clears  away 

Enter  Rubaldo,  r. 

Rub.  Comrades  ! comrades  ! up  and  away ! 

[Massaroni  starts  up  and  snatches  his  hat  and  carbine , and 
advances , c. — Maria  advances  l.  c. 

tinier  other  Brigands,  r.  and  l. — Massaroni  mixes  with 
them , and  shakes  hands. 


6 


THE  BRIGAND. 


[act 


Brigands,  {shout)  Evviva  Massaroni  ! 

CHORUS  OF  BRIGANDS 
This  our  maxim,  wise  and  bold 
Naught  for  naught,  and  all  for  gold ; 

Banish  every  weaker  feeling, 

Let  the  bigot  prate  of  crime, — 

Time  from  all  is  daily  stealing; 

We  but  do  as  teaches  time. 

[A  jovial  half -turn  up  the  stage . 

Mas.  (c.)  Comrades,  {all  quickly  advance,)  ye  are  anxi- 
ous, no  doubt,  to  know  why  we  have  made  this  night-march 
from  Velletri.  Listen : The  Neapolitan  Ambassador  leaves 
Rome  this  morning  on  a private  visit  to  the  Villa  Comma, 
where  a celebrated  cantatrice  is  suffering  from  the  effects  of 
a severe  cold,  caught  while  attending  the  rehearsal  of  a new 
opera.  {Laugh  by  Brigands.)  His  excellency,  who  shares  in 
the  natural  and  general  despair  of  Rome  upon  this  occasion, 
carries  with  him  a large  quantity  of  that  golden  balsam  which 
has  ever  been  found  an  infallible  remedy  for  the  hoarseness  of 
a Prima  Donna,  {another  laugh,)  and  travels  alone  in  his 
cabriolet  upon  this  important  diplomatic  mission.  Rubaldo, 
you  will  receive  his  excellency  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
with  a guard  of  honor  ; accost  him  with  the  respect  due  to 
his  exalted  rank  and  inviolable  character ; suggest  to  him 
that  the  signora  is  rich  enough  already,  and  that  we  wish  to 
become  so.  His  lordship  has  too  much  good  sense  not  to 
perceive  immediately  the  justice  of  your  observation. 

Rub.  (r.  c.)  Ay,  ay,  I warrant  we  will  convince  him. 

Mas.  {crossing  to  l.)  A singular  piece  of  information  has 
also  reached  me  respecting  the  steward  of  the 'College  of  St. 
Arnulph : he  is  accustomed  to  traverse  this  mountain  on  his 
road  to  collect  the  rents  of  the  College,  in  the  disguise  of  a 
beggar,  and,  for  better  security  on  his  return  with  the  money, 
he  goes  nearly  two  leagues  about  by  a more  frequented  route, 
{crossing  to  c.)  carrying  generally  from  nine  to  ten  thousand 
ducats  ingeniously  concealed  in  {all  lean  anxiously  forward) — 
but  it  matters  not,  I have  his  secret — he  will  pass  anon,  and  I 
have  formed  a mad  scheme,  which  I doubt  not  will  lure  the 
old  fox  this  way  home  again.  Away,  Rubaldo,  to  meet  the 
ambassador,  (Rub.,  Spo.,  and  Car.,  go  up  c.  and  off  r.  u.  e.) 
— leave  me  to  take  care  of  the  worthy  steward — the  rest — {all 
lean  forward  awaiting  the  order)  vanish!  {all  dart  off  1,  2, 
and  3 e.,  r.  and  l.  Mas.  goes  up  and  puts  carbine  and  hat 
on  bank) 


ec.  I.]  THE  BRIGAND.  7 

Maria,  (l.  after  a pause)  You  have  other  reasons  for  leav- 
ing Velletri. 

Mas.  (c./  Are  not  those  I have  given  sufficient  ? 

Maria.  For  the  band,  perchance  ; not  for  Maria  Grazie ! 
The  Prince  Bianchi,  your  inveterate  enemy,  is  at  Villa  Rosa — • 
a descent  upon  the  Palazza,  perchance. 

Mas.  What,  risk  the  safety  of  the  whole  band  for  a few 
pictures?  for,  rich  and  ostentatious  as  the  old  voluptuary  may 
be,  he  is  too  wise  to  keep  his  treasure  without  the  walls  of 
Rome. 

Maria.  But,  to  seize  his  person,  and  carry  him  off  to  the 
mountains. 

Mas.  ( laughing ) Ha ! ha ! it  would  be  a rare  trick,  and 
might  win  us  a heavy  ransom  ; but  that  is  not  my  motive  for 
approaching  so  near  the  city:  list  ye,  girl, — what  think  you 
of  laying  hands  upon  a cardinal,  a prince  of  the  church ! and 
demanding,  in  lieu  of  ransom,  an  unconditional  pardon  and 
absolution  from  the  Pope  ? 

Maria  ( sneeringly .)  What,  to  wipe  out  old  sins,  and 
commence  a new  score  upon  a clear  conscience  ? 

Mas.  Not  so  ; no,  I am  weary  of  this  watch-dog  life. 
Another  stroke  of  good  fortune,  and  my  booty  will  amount  to 
a sufficient  sum  to  enable  me  to  quit  the  mountains,  purchase 
a title  and  a villa,  and  pass  the  rest  of  my  days  in  Tuscany 
or  Savoy,  rich,  noble,  and  as  honest,  perchance,  as  the  prince 
who  plunders  his  own  subjects,  or  the  marquis  who  draws  his 
income  from  a faro-table ! If  my  deeds  have  been  lawless,  let 
the  punishment  fall  upon  his  head  who  abandoned  me,  the 
victim  of  his  lust,  and  her  innocent  offspring,  to  the  scorn  of 
the  world  and  the  temptations  of  despair. — He  ! he  ! they . 
told  me  he  was  called  noble.  ( Drawing  a miniature  from  his 
breast)  My  mother!  my  poor  injured  mother!-  why  did  thy 
dying  lips  conceal  the  villain’s  name  ? I would  have  carried 
thy  corse  into  the  banquet  hall  and  placed  it  at  the  festive 
board  beside  him  ! ay,  made  his  shuddering  guests  do  honor 
to  the  lady  of  the  mansion,  fairer  in  her  grave  clothes  than 
her  seducer  in  his  perfumed  embroidery.  [ Crosses  to  l. 

Maria.  Alessandro  ! 

Mas.  Ay ! ay  ! ’tis  past ! Some  wine,  Maria  ! my  countess 
that  shall  be.  [Crosses  to  r. 

Maria,  (c.)  I will  be  none  ! I am  a brigand’s  daughter,  I 
will  die  a brigand’s  wife. 

Mas.  A brigand’s  wife!  a brigand’s  widow  rather,  au 


8 THE  BRIGAND,  [acti. 

Prince  Bianchi’s  pleasure  be  consulted — the  wine,  I say.  (Ma- 
ria goes  to  the  rock , l.,  brings  a flask  and  horn , pours  out 
wine , and  gives  it  to  him ) To  the  health  of  his  highness ; his 
anxiety  for  my  safe  keeping  demands  my  gratitude. 

[ Takes  off  his  hat  and  drinks. 

Maria  ( looking  off \ r.)  Hush  ! — a footstep 

Mas.  ( looking  off, \ r.)  The  steward  of  St.  Arnulph’s  I — > 
quick,  my  peasant’s  hat  and  coat.  (Maria  fetches  them  from 
2 e.  l.,  and  assists  him  on  with  them.)  So,  away,  and  watch 
the  issue  of  Rubaldo’s  expedition.  ( Exit  u.  e.  r.  Maria,  down 
the  mountain ; Massaroni  conceals  his  brigand  hat  and  car- 
bine under  the  shrubs , l.  u.  e.)  The  dress,  the  staff- 
yes,  all  agree  with  the  description  I Now  to  tickle  this  holy 
trout. 

[£Ws  himself  at  the  rock  under  the  oak  tree , c.,  draws  a dice- 
box  from  his  pocket,  and  begins  playing  upon  a piece  of 
slate  sunk  into  bank] 

Enter  Nicolo,  r.,  with  a long  staff,  and  disguised  as  a beggar . 

Nic.  So ! having  gained  the  mountain  top,  I’ll  pause  and 
breathe  awhile. 

Mas.  [throwing)  Six  for  thee,  holy  St.  Eustace. 

Nic.  [starting  and  looking  round)  Eh ! what’s  that  ? 

Mas.  [throwing  again)  And  four  for  me  ! my  old  luck 
haunts  me  still. 

Nic.  Why,  what’s  that  fellow  about  yonder  ? playing  at 
dice  by  himself. 

Mas.  Five  for  thee,  and  three  for  me  ! Capsetto  ! were  it 
not  I played  with  a saint,  I would  swear  the  devil  were  in  the 
dice ! 

Nic.  [advancing  up  towards  Massaroni)  What  ails  thee, 
son  ? 

Mas.  Silence,  man,  don’t  speak  to  me  just  as  I am  throw- 
ing; ten  for  St.  Eustace.  [Throwing  again)  For  me — nine! 
[Jumping  up  and  advancing  to  the  front,  c.)  Maladizione ! 
Maladizione!  Maladizione!  [Advances,  L.) 

Nic.  Swear  not,  my  son  ; what  hath  befallen  thee  ? 

Mas.  Befallen  me  ! why,  Corpo  di  Bacco  ! here  hath  St. 
Eustace  won  a matter  of  two  hundred  ducats  from  me  since 
sunrise. 

Nic.  [surprised)  St.  Eustace  win  of  thee? 

Mas.  Ay  ! I play  with  him  four  or  five  times  a day  upon 
this  stone,  and  out  of  three  thousand  ducats  my  father  left  me, 


sc.  ir| 


THE  BRIGAND. 


9 


two  months  ago,  I have  already  lost  more  than  half : never ! 
never  ! by  any  accident,  do  I rise  a winner! 

Nic.  (aside.)  The  fellow’s  mad  ! Some  broken  gambler, 
whose  wits  have  turned  with  a run  of  bad  luck,  and  still  raves 
of  dice  and  ducats. 

Mas.  I’ll  have  one  chance  more  for  my  money : double  or 
quits — come,  friend,  see  fair  play. 

Nic.  (aside.)  I must  not  provoke  him.  (Aloud)  Well,  I 
wish  you  good  fortune,  friend. 

Mas.  (sitting  at  the  rock , and  taking  the  dice-box.)  I’ll  throw 
first,  this  time — seven — come,  viva  Maria ! I have  a chance  for 
it,  now. 

Nic.  (aside.)  Poor  wretch ! how  earnestly  he  plays. 

Mas.  (throwing.)  Nine  ! look  you  there,  now ! It’s  of  no 
use.  (Rising  and  advancing  to  front,  c.)  Pour  hundred  ducats 
gone  in  a morning. 

Nic.  (r.  c.)  Well,  well,  never  mind ; St.  Eustace  will  not 
press  for  payment,  I’ll  answer  for  him. 

Mas.  Not  press  for  payment ! what  mean  you  by  that  ? 
I’m  punctual  in  my  payments. 

Nic.  And  to  whom  do  you  pay  it,  signor  ? to  the  hermits 
of  Monterella,  near  his  chapel  ? 

Mas.  No,  I do  not!  he  sends  me  his  receiver. 

Nic.  (aside.)  His  receiver — stark  mad  ! but  very  harmless, 
seemingly.  (Aloud)  And  who  may  that  be,  signor  ? 

Mas.  Some  poor  soul,  to  whom  the  money  is  an  object. 
Thyself,  for  instance  ; for,  now  I look  at  thee,  thou  seem’st 
poor  enough.  I warrant  me,  he  hath  sent  thee  for  his 
winnings. 

[Prompter  ready  to  Ring  Trap , b. 

Nic.  ( aside .)  Mass  ! if  I thought  he  had  the  money  to  pay, 
I would  not  be  long  answering  the  question. 

Mas.  Here,  my  friend,  here  are  two  hundred  ducats ; all  I 
have  about  me  at  present.  ( Giving  him  a purse.)  I must  be  thy 
debtor  till  sundown  for  the  other  half. 

Nic.  How?  (examining  the  purse.) 

Mas.  Oh  ! you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  count  it — the 
sum  is  there  ; and  the  rest  shall  be  on  this  stone  before  sun- 
set. I’ll  pay  honestly  and  promptly,  while  my  money  lasts  ; 
when  T am  broken,  there’s  an  end  on’t. 

Nic.  (aside.)  It  is  gold — real,  glittering  ducats  ! if  I dared 
keep  them— 

Mas.  Well,  why  do  you  hold  them  as  if  they  would  bite 


THE  BRIGAND. 


13 


ACT  I 


you  ? They  are  yours,  I tell  you  ; I have  lost  them  and  paid 
them ; and  you  shall  find  the  other  two  hundred  ducats  here 
by  sundown. 

Nic.  (aside.)  Nay,  then,  ’tis  no  business  of  mine.  Two 
hundred  ducats  is  a rare  windfall  ! (Aloud — crossing  to  l.) 
Many  thanks  to  you,  noble  signor,  and  send  you  better  fortune 
another  time. 

Mas.  (r.)  Enough,  enough  ! begone  ! 

Nic.  (aside,  laughing .)  He  seems  vexed  at  losing,  though. 
— I’ll  bestir  me,  lest  he  should  repent  having  paid. 

[Exit,  hastily,  l. 

Mas.  Soh  ! soh  ! the  old  shark  bites — the  hook  is  in  his 
gills;  and,  if  I land  him  not,  I will  turn  Jesuit  myself,  and 
sell  my  carbine  for  a rosary. 

[ Flings  off  his  peasant' s dress. 

Enter  Maria,  hastily,  up  the  mountain,  y.  e.  r. 

Maria.  To  arms!  to  arms!  Rubaldo  is  in  danger— -the 
story  of  the  ambassador  was  but  a snare — the  soldiers  are 
upon  us — two  of  our  men  have  fallen — the  rest  are  hotly  pur- 
sued. [Mass aron i whistles. 

Enter  the  Brigands  from  r.  and  l. 

Mas.  My  carbine  ! follow. 

[Seizes  his  carbine  and  hat,  and  rushes  down  the  mounta  n. 
followed  by  the  whole  of  the  Brigands — Maria  springs  up<m 
a jutting  rock,  under  the  oak  tree,  c.,  grasping  with  her  l ft 
hand  a branch  that  overhangs  a pi'£cipice,  and  looking  anx- 
iously down  the  mountain — Forming  the  second  picture  from 
Eastlakds  Series,  “ The  Wife  of  a Brigand  Chief  watching 
the  result  of  a Battle ,”  dec. 

Maria,  (shouting.)  To  the  right ! to  the  right ! through  the 
thicket — now  they  see  them — San  Antonio!  (JD>  urns  heat  and 
shots  fire  without,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.)  Bravely  shot, 
Alessandro!  down  with  them,  Rubaldo!  Ah! — they  waver 
— they  turn — they  fly  ! (waves  her  handkerchief  triumphantly) 
Viva  Massaroni ! 

[Brums,  guns , and  shouts  witho 


as  the  si  ere  closes 


SC.  II-1 


THE  BRIGAND. 


U 


SCENE  II. 

Ruins  of  a Roman  Temple,  and  distant  Country. 

Enter  Theodore  and  Albert,  r.,  each  with  a portfolio. 

The.  (c.)  How  beautifully  the  light  falls  upon  that  ruin  I 
Stay,  stay,  Albert : I must  positively  make  another  sketch. 

Alb.  Be  quick,  then.  We  shall  scarcely  reach  the  Villa 
Rosa  by  dinner-time ; and  you  know  the  prince  receives  com- 
pany this  evening. 

The.  (stooping  down  on  one  knee,  and  sketching  in  his  port- 
folio.) We  have  made  a long  round  this  day,  -certainly ; but 
what  glorious  scenery  have  we  gazed  on  ! Vanity  apart,  I 
really  believe  I want  but  a glimpse  of  that  same  ban- 
ditti yonr  fair  Ottavia  talks  so  much  about,  to  make  me  a 
second  Salvator. 

Alb.  The  anxiety  that  Ottavia  will  labor  under  if  we  are 
beyond  our  time,  is  an  additional  reason  for  my  requesting 
dispatch.  Though  we  are  in  no  danger  here  : Massaroni  has 
never  yet  thought  proper  to  push  his  advanced  posts  so  near 
to  Rome. 

The.  I should  like  to  see  that  fellow  amazingly — he  does 
things  with  a high  hand,  by  all  accounts ; and  his  language 
and  manners,  they  tell  me,  are  far  superior  to  those  of  his 
companions. 

Alb.  He  is  the  Robin  Hood  of  Italy  ; taking  from  the  rich 
to  give  to  the  poor — generous,  daring,  and  fond  of  frolic — he 
has  never  been  known  to  shed  blood,  but  in  his  own  defence  ; 
and,  in  addition  to  the  usual  anomalies  which  compose  the 
character  of  an  Italian  brigand,  he  is  renowned  for  a sense  of 
justice,  which  makes  him  the  umpire  upon  all  occasions  of 
dispute  amongst  the  peasantry,  who  seek  him  for  counsel,  as- 
sistance, and  revenge. 

The.  You  have  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  Ottavia  respect- 
ing him.  Egad  ! Albert,  you  are  a lucky  dog,  to  have  inspir- 
ed the  niece  of  Prince  Bianchi  with  a tender  passion.  You,  a 
poor  devil  of  a painter,  with  nothing  but  your  twelve  hundred 
francs’  pension  to  depend  on. 

Enter  Maria  Grazie,  r.  s.  e.  ( Seeing  them , she  starts , stops , 
and  listens.) 

Alb.  I shall  bo  fortunate,  indeed,  should  Prince  Bianc-hi 


THE  BRIGAND. 


12 


[act  I. 


give  his  consent  to  our  union  ; but  that  I hardly  dare  calcu- 
late upon. 

The.  (still  sketching .)  Oh,  he  will  not  refuse  anything*  to 
Ottavia : and  you  are  so  great  a favorite  with  him  since  you 
restored  the  picture  of  the  lady  he  keeps  curtained  up  in  the 
sala.  But  there — (rising) — I have  finished  my  sketch,  and 
filled  my  book,  (Maria  retires ,)  all  but  one  leaf,  for  a group 
of  brigands,  which  it  seems  1 must  paint  from  description. 
Now  onward,  as  fast  as  you  please.  \Going,  l. 


Re-enter  Maria,  with  Rubaldo,  and  three  Brigands , l.  s.  e. 

Rub.  (l.)  Stand! 

The.  (aside,  r.)  Robbers ! I have  my  wish,  at  any  rate. 
(Crosses  to  r.) 

Alb.  What  would  you  ? 

Rub.  Can’t  you  guess ? Money!  aye,  and  plenty  of  it. 

The.  (aside  to  Albert.)  They  are  but  three  to  two — the  wo- 
man counts  for  nothing  ; knock  down  that  fellow. 

[Albert  makes  a,  dash  at  the  nearest  Brigand — Theodore 

seizes  the  carbine  of  Rubaldo — the  third  Brigand  and  Ma- 
ria draw  stilettos , and  rush  upon  them.] 

Enter  Massaroni  and  three  other  Brigands , l.  s.  e. 

Mas.  (c.)  Hold!  (A pause,)  Recover!  (Brigands  look  sulk- 
ily at  Mas.)  Recover ! Maria  ! Release  him  ! Rubaldo  ! back  ! 
back,  sir,  I say  ! (All  retire  a little , sulkily.)  Maria,  Rubaldo ! 
two  unarmed  travellers  ! why,  the  skirmish  with  the  Prince’? 
troops  has  put  your  blood  up  with  a vengeance.  (Turning  to 
The.  and  Alb.)  Pardon,  young  gentlemen,  the  hasty  temper 
of  my  friends  here  ; some  of  them  have  been  roughly  handled 
in  a little  ambuscade,  this  morning,  and  it  has  disturbed  the 
natural  serenity  of  their  dispositions. 

[Mar.  gets  down  l.  of  Mas. 

The.  Why,  here  is  a thief  of  quality,  now — a gentlemanly 
highwayman,  who  will  hear  reason,  I warrant;  your  name, 
signor,  is (crossing  to  Mas.) 

Mas.  Massaroni ! (Throws  his  cloak  to  Maria , who  catches  it 
across  her  arm.) 

The.  As  I suspected!  there’s  ahead  for  a saidy  ! (Crossing 
r.  to  his  portfolio.) 

Alb.  (r.  c.)  Your  custom,  I believe,  is  to  make  prisoners 
and  demand  ransoms;  what  sum  do  you  fix  upon,  for  ours* 

Mas.  (o.)  You  are  artists,  apparently. 


THE  BRIGAND. 


§c*  n.*| 


IS 


The.  Students  of  the  French  Academy;  poor  as  Job. 

Mas.  But  you  have  friends,  I dare  say,  who  will  not  be- 
grudge two  thousand  scudi  for  you.  (Maria  retires  up.)  In 
the  meantime  I must  request  your  company  to  my  retreat  in 
the  mountains — an  excellent  situation,  and  a salubrious  air  ; 
we  will  find  a peasant  to  carry  your  letter  by  and  by. 

Maria,  (l.  c.,  angrily .)  They  are  friends  of  Prince  Bianchi 
-“two  thousand  scudi  are  insufficient. 

Mas.  Friends  of  the  Prince!  Nay,  then,  gentlemen,  I 
must  treble  the  sum,  at  least.  I could  not  so  offend  his  high- 
ness as  to  take  a common  ransom  for  any  one  he  honors  with 
his  friendship.  You  will  desire  the  Prince  Bianchi  to  send  me 
immediately  six  thousand  scudi. 

Rub.  (l.  who  has  been  consulting  with  the  band.)  No,  no 
ransom ! 

Omnes.  No  ! no  ransom  ! 

Rub.  The  friends  of  the  prince  are  our  deadliest  foes  ! They 
shall  not  live ! 

[Rubaldo  presents  his  carbine  at  Theodore — Maria,  with  a 

drawn  dagger , near  him , and  three  Brigands , show  symp - 


toms  of  revolt.] 

• Brigands. 

Albert.  Massaroni. 

Theodore. 

K. 

Maria. 

Rubaldo. 

I 

Mas.  (< authoritatively .)  Who  says  they  shall  not  live  ? They 
shall  not  live, who  dare  dispute  the  will  of  Massaroni  ? Ma- 
ria, I say ! Rubaldo,  I saved  you  this  morning  from  a short 
shrift  and  a sharp  axe  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo.*  ( Seizes  his 
cafbine  in  a threatening  attitude.)  Back  ! or  I’ll  balance  ac- 
counts by  putting  a brace  of  bullets  through  that  ox-head  of 
thine  ! Back,  all  of  you,  I say  ! Are  ye  mad,  that  ye  would 
make  me  bid  ye  twice  ! Back,  sir  ! Back,  I say  ! 

[Rubaldo,  <&c.,  retire  up  sulkily  to  2 e.  l. 

The.  ( recovering , and  opening  his  sketch-book.)  There’s  a 
position  ! If  he  would  but  keep  so  for  five  minutes  ! 

[, Sketching  rapidly. 

Alb.  (r.  c.)  Massaroni,  hear  me  : you  have  saved  our  lives, 
and  we  will  be  frank  with  you ; the  Prince  Bianchi  esteems 
me,  and  would  not,  under  other  circumstances,  begrudge 
the  sum  you  demand  for  my  liberty  and  that  of  my  friend — • 


* The  place  of  execution  for  criminals  in  Rome. 


THE  BRIGAND. 


14 


[act  l 


but  I know  him  well : on  the  receipt  of  ray  letter,  instead  o f 
money,  he  would  send  soldiers. 

Mas.  ( scornfully .)  Indeed  ! the  soldiers  of  Rome  . —he  sent 
some  this  morning  : they  have  galloped  back  to  the  Eternal 
City  faster  and  fewer  than  they  left  it . ( Laugh  by  Brigands .) 
{Sternly.)  Say  you  this  to  intimidate  Massaroni  ? 

Alb.  No  ; for  I know  him  brave,  as  I am  told  he  is  gener- 
ous. You  fix  our  ransom  at  six  thousand  scudi ; let  me  go 
seek  them. 

Mas.  Your  companion,  then,  will  remain  our  hostage  ? 

Alb.  No  ; his  absence  would  awake  the  suspicion  of 
the  prince.  Money,  I repeat,  you  would  receive  none ; 
and  surely  the  murder  of  that  youth  would  be  a poor 
recompense  for  the  loss  of  his  ransom.  Give  us  our  liberty, 
and,  by  that  holy  sign  upon  your  breast,  I swear  to  send  a 
faithful  servant  with  the  money  to  any  spot  you  may  appoint, 
before  midnight.  [ Kneels . 

Mas.  And  what  security  have  I that  you  will  keep  faith 
with  a Brigand  ? 

Alb.  Let  the  belief  in  your  generosity  which  has  inspired 
so  novel  a proposition,  be  the  pledge  of  the  sincerity  with  which 
it  is  made.  That,  and  his  oath,  are  all  a poor  foundling  has 
to  offer.  (Massaroni,  affected,  drops  gun.  Brigands  advance 
a little , listening.) 

Mas.  {starting.)  A foundling  ? abandoned  by  your  parents  ; 
{A  pause.)  Enough,  I will  trust  you — {crosses  to  l.,  Maria 
picks  up  gun) — but  mind,  no  messenger,  no  confidant ; before 
midnight,  I will  send  those  to  Villa  Rosa  who  shall  receive 
the  ransom  or  bring  you  back  again. 

Alb.  {rising.)  I consent. 

Mas.  You  are  answerable  for  your  friend  ? 

Alb.  With  my  life. 

Mas.  Your  name  ? 

Alb.  Albert  Deschamps. 

Mas.  You  may  depart. 

(Albert  and  Theodore  cross  to  l.,  the  Brigands  cross  to  r.) 

Omnes.  Depart ! 

Mas.  (foRuBALDo.)  Silence  ! {To  Albert.)  I rely  on  your 
promise. 

The.  {closing  his  book.)  Free  ! you  don’t  say  so  ? 

{Brigands  all  action,  as  if  to  attack  Theodore  and  Albert.) 

‘ Mas.  (r.  waving  off  the  Brigands.)  To  the  mountains  1 


THE  BRIGAND. 


15 


sc.  II.] 


Back,  Rubaldo  ! Maria,  I say  ! Come,  come,  good  lads,  to  the 
mountains — to  the  mountains — good  lads.  (Maria  and  Bri- 
gands move  off , sulkily , 1 Sr  2 e. r.  and  l .)  (To  Albert.)  Re- 
member, the  vengeance  of  Massaroni  is  sweeping  as  it  is  sure. 
Adio.  (Mas.  assumes  a suavity  of  manner , which  they  join  in, 
in  the  “ Adio”  Mas.  exits  r.  h.) 

The.  Evviva,  Massaroni  ! What  have  you  promised  ? 

Alb.  To  pay  six  thousand  scudi  to  his  messenger  befoie 
midnight,  or  return  his  captive. 

The.  Oh,  the  devil ! I thought  he  had  let  us  off  scot  free ; 
but,  no  matter,  we’ll  raise  the  sum,  I’ll  be  bound  ; and  here’s 
a portrait  from  the  life,  my  boy,  that,  when  transferred  to 
canvass,  will  sell  for  half  the  money.  ( shows  the  sketch  of  Mas- 
mroni.) 

Alb.  You  must  to  Rome  instantly,  Theodore — w7e  will  find 
a horse  at  the  next  village.  _ Go  to  our  patrons — to  the  Aca- 
demy ; I will  account  for  your  absence  at  the  Villa  ; I have 
fifteen  hundred  scudi  there — the  rest  must  be  raised  at  any 
sacrifice. — Speed  ! speed  ! speed  I [. Exeunt  l. 


[ Give  Massaroni  a moment's  time  before  change .] 


SCENE  III. 

The  same  as  the  first. 

Massaroni  discovered  in  his  Peasant' s disguise — Advances  l., 
pauses — looks  around. 

Mas.  Yes,  as  I calculated,  the  old  steward  returns  for  his 
other  two  hundred  ducati.  Quick,  to  my  game  ! I would 
wager,  now,  the  luck  is  on  my  side.  ( Sits  at  the  rock , under 
the  oak , and  plays  as  before) 

Enter  Nicolo,  l. 

Nic.  (aside.)  There  he  is,  sure  enough,  and  at  play  still. 
Oh,  if  the  saint  hath  made  good  use  of  his  time!  (Crosses  to 
r.)  I almost  feared  to  return  this  way,  for  ’tis  rumored  in  the 
towns  that  the  banditti  have  been  seen  in  this  neigh borhood, 
— not  that  my  appearance  is  promising  enough  to  provoke 

their  attack,  but,  should  they  have  heard  of  my  errand 

Mas.  Viva  Maria ! that  was  a noble  cast ! double  or  quits -3 


THE  BRIGAND. 


16 


[act  1 


May,  now  the  tide  is  turning;  I’ll  throw  it  all.  Double  of 
nuits  be  it ! 

Nio.  ( aside , r.)  What’s  that  he  says? 

[Ring  Music  Bell. 

To  Massaroni)  Signor  Gamester,  I am  here  according  to — 

Mas.  Silence,  silence,  man  ! I have  a heavy  stake  upon  the 
sast.  Six  for  St.  Eustace  ! now,  now  for  it — twelve,  Evviva  ! 
t have  won  ! I have  won  ! ( Jumps  up  delighted , and  ad- 
vances to  c.) 

Nic.  Won  ? 

Mas.  Ay : ten  thousand  ducati ! 

Nic.  {aside.)  Poor  fool ! and  he  flatters  himself. — {Aloud) 
I give  you  joy,  signor ; you  give  St.  Eustace  long  credit,  of 
course. 

Mas.  Long  credit!  not  an  hour  ; he  is  as  punctual  in  his 
payments  as  I am  in  mine. 

Nic.  And  in  what  coin,  pray  ? 

Mas.  The  coin  of  the  realm,  to  be  sure,  honest  gold  and 
silver.  Oh,  ’tis  all  arranged  : when  I lose,  he  sends  his  re- 
ceiver, some  poor  devil  who  is  glad  of  the  money ; when  I 
win,  he  sends  his  paymaster,  some  rich  old  hunks  or  another, 
whose  gold,  hardly  wrung  from  the  needy,  is  weighing  his 
soul  down  to  perdition.  (Nic.  getting  alarmed .) 

Nic.  He’s  very  mad,  indeed  ! I don’t  like  his  looks. 

Mas.  For  instance,  now,  this  morning,  when  I lost,  he 
threw  in  my  way  a beggarly-looking  personage,  who,  I be- 
lieve, had  not  a scudi  about  him  ; but  this  afternoon,  like  an 
honest  saint  as  he  is,  he  sends  me  the  grasping  steward  of  St. 
Arnulph’s,  with  upwards  of  nine  thousand  ducati  to  pay  my 
fair  winnings. 

Nic.  {aside.)  Diavolo!  {Aloud)  I don’t  understand — I give 
you  good-day — I [Going,  r. 

Mas.  {taking  hold  of  his  jacket  drags  him  by  it  to  centre.) 
Nay,  nay,  master  Steward,  I speak  plainly  enough,  methinks. 
Come,  fulfil  the  intentions  of  the  most  holy  and  honorable  St. 
Eustace.  Nine  thousand  eight  hundred  ducati  is  my  due;  let 
us  see  how  nearly  you  can  make  up  the  sum  ; I will  not  hag- 
gle with  you  for  a few  scudi. 

Nic.  Most  worthy  signor,  I call  St.  Eustace  himself  to 
witness  you  are  mistaken ; I have  not  a paul  upon  my  per- 
son. Search  me,  noble  signor,  and  satisfy  yourself. 

Mas.  Not  upon  your  person,  I grant  you.  ( Crossing  to himi 
and  snatching  his  staff.)  But  this  staff 


sc.  niA  THE  BRIGAND.  H 

Nic.  (l.)  Murder!  thieves!  I am  ruined!  undone!  oh, 
had  I but  arms 

Mas.  (c.)  Arms  ! nay,  perchance  I can  furnish  you  with 
some.  [ Whistles. 


Enter  the  Banditti  r.  and  l.  ( They  level.) 


Mas.  Recover  ! ( They  recover.) 

Brigands. 

Brigands. 

Brigands.  Massaroni. 

Nicolo. 

Maria. 

Rubaldo. 

R. 

L. 

Mas.  Comrades,  give  thanks  to  the  worthy  steward  of  St. 
Arnulph’s,  who  presents,  in  the  name  of  his  College,  ten  thou- 
sand ducati  to  the  troop  of  Alessandro  Massaroni. 

[ Breaks  the  staff  across  his  knees , and  discovers  it  to  be  filled 
with  gold  pieces , some  of  which  roll  about  the  stage , and 
are  scrambled  for  by  the  Brigands.  Nicolo  at  the  same 
time  echoes  the  name  of  Massaroni,  and  falls  on  his  knees , 
l.  corner .] 

CHORUS  OF  THE  BRIGANDS. 


Viva ! viva ! viva  ! 
Mas.  Scramble,  boys! 


po.use . 


CHORUS,  CONTINUED. 

Monsignore  L’Economo. 

Molto  obligato, 

All  illustre  major  domo  ! 

Your  kindness  to  acknowledge, 

We  are  bound  in  verita  : 

Make  our  duty  to  the  College, 

Servitor  ! ha.  ha,  ha  ! 

(All  the  Brigands  crowd  round  and  banter  Nicolo,  a/nd  bow 
him  off  r.) 


Rub.  (r.)  Now,  while  downward  wheels  the  sun, 

Let  (he  flask  and  song  go  round  ; 

Sport  we  till  the  day  be  done, — 

Forward,  then,  on  duty  bound. 

Spo.  (Up  l.)  And  see  where,  up  the  air-hung  rock, 

The  friendly  peasants  toil  lo  join 
Our  jovial  band,  and  swell  our  stock 
Of  fair  Genzano’s  racy  wine! 

[Ready  whips  to  crack,  h.  is.  a, 


IS 


THE  BRIGAND. 


{"act  1. 


[Female  Peasants  ascend  the  mountain  with  bash  at  of  pro- 
visions— they  come  down  r.  and  l.,  distribute  them 
amongst  the  Brigands , and  receive  in  lieu  money  or 
trinkets .) 

Cho.  Dance,  drink,  and  sing,  play  at  dice,  play  at  mora,* 
Laugh  at  the  laws  from  our  eyry  secure  ; 

Round  with  the  bottle,  ancora  ! ancora  ! 

Wine  is  of  all  worldly  evils  a cure. 

(At  quick  part  Large  Bell  three  times.) 

[Some  of  the  Brigands  dance  with  the  Peasants  ; in  the  midst 
of  their  jollity  the  bell  of  a distant  convent  rings  the  An- 
gelos.— All  pause .) 

Cho.  Hark!  from  the  distant  convent  tower, 

The  bell  rings  out  the  holy  hour ! 

Ave  ! ave  ! Santa  e bella 
Nostra  Dama  della  Monterella  ! 

[The  crack  of  a postillion's  whip  is  heard.  Momentary 
Pause.  Whip  cracks  three  times , w.  e.  r.  Ready  again.) 

Carlotti.  [Jumping  upon  the  rock  under  the  oak-tree .)  A 
carriage  winds  round  the  mountain  road. 

(Massaroni  runs  up,  r.  c.,  and  looks  down  the  mountain .) 
Rubaldo.  (r.,  while  loading  his  carbine  and  pistols) — 
AIR. 

There  is  gold  in  that  sound  ; 

[This  line  repeated,  then  whip  cracks  four  times.  No  more.) 
Load,  comrades,  load. 

[The  Brigands  all  load  their  carbines  and  pistols — Massa- 
roni returns  to  the  front,  c.,  and  loads  his  carbine,  ivhile 
Maria,  on  one  k<  ee,  l.  c.,  loads  his  pistols  and  places  them 
in  his  belt .) 

Cho.  Silence!  silence!  they  come,  they  come 
Down  to  the  earth — be  dumb,  be  dumb  ! 

yrbe  Peasantry  steal  off,  r.  and  l. — The  Brigands  crouch 
behind  the  rocks  and  shrubs  in  every  direction,  with  theii 
carbines  levelled,  with  Massaroni  and  Maria  up  e.,  form « 
ing  a picture , as  the 

Act  Drop  slowly  falls. 


* Mora  is  a game  common  among  the  Roman  peasantry,  and  sim- 
ilar to  our,  11  Buck,  buck  ! how  many  horns  do  I hold  upT 


f <3.  I.  | 


THE  BRIGAND. 


IS 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

View  from  the  Terrace  of  Villa  Rosa.  Large  easy  chair  on  c. 

Enter  Prince  Bianchi  and  Nioolo,  l.  c. 

Prince  B.  (c.  laughing ) Ha  ! ha ! ho ! ho  ! of  all  the 
tricks  I ever  heard,  this  is  the  most  amusing. 

Nic.  (l.  gravely)  Your  highness  will  pardon  me,  I am  un- 
able to  see  the  joke. 

Prince  B.  See  the  joke ! you  never  could  see  a joke  in 
your  life,  master  Nicolo — all  my  best  things  are  thrown  away 
upon  you.  1 tell  you  it’s  capital!  give  you  two  hundred 
ducats  at  daybreak,  to  receive  ten  thousand  by  noon  ! by  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter’s,  but  all  the  Jews  in  Rome  ought  to  wor- 
ship him  for  raising  the  rate  of  usance  ; and  a sly  old  fox 
like  you  to  be  so  trapped. 

Nic.  But,  mon  signore,  this  is  no  answer  to  my  complaint; 
will  you  see  justice  done  to  the  college,  or  not  ? 

Prince  B.  Cospetto ! master  steward,  what  would  you 
have  me  do  ? I can’t  hang  the  fellow  till  I catch  him.  I’m 
sure  I take  trouble  enough  about  it : I threw  out  a bait  for 
him  this  morning,  but  he  was  too  much  bent  upon  a game  at 
dice  with  St.  Eustace,  to  bite  at  it ; but  we  peppered  a few  of 
his  people  though. 

Nic.  But,  excellenza  ! 

Prince  B.  But,  master  steward!  as  you  have  the  honor  of  a 
personal  acquaintance  with  this  facetious  gentleman,  you  will 
do  me  the  favor  to  return  this  evening  after  dusk,  and  con- 
duct a strong  detachment  of  soldiers  to  the  spot  of  your  en- 
counter. I will  lose  no  time  in  striving  to  take  the  rascal 
living.  I am  sorry  to  disappoint  the  good  people  of  Rome 
of  the  spectacle  of  his  execution ; but,  if  my  soldiery  can  get 
within  gun-shot,  they  shall  cut  the  matter  as  short  as  possible. 
Fabio! 

(Fabio  enters  r.) 

Fab.  (r.)  Excellenza ! 

Prince  B.  A glass  of  tokay,  for  master  steward. 

Fab.  Of — of — tokay,  excellenza  ? 

Prince  B.  Of  tokay,  ay — of  the  pannier  that  came  froni 
Rome  this  morning,  that  you  brought  yourself,  or  have  my 
orders  been  neglected. 


so 


THE  BRIGAND, 


[act  II. 


Fab.  No,  excellenza. 

Prince  B.  Then,  why  stand  you  there  ? Bring  me  the 
pannier  here  immediately  ; let  me  see  if— — 

Fab.  Pardon,  excellenza ! I can  bring  you  the  pannier, 
certainly,  if  you  please,  but  as  for  the  wine 

Prince  B.  The  wine — what  of  the  wine,  villain  ? ' 

Fab.  It’s  all  drunk,  your  highness. 

Prince  B.  Drunk  ! who  should  dare  to  drink  my  choice 
tokay  ? 

Fab.  Those  who  dare  do  anything,  excellenza. 

Prince  B.  Explain,  scoundrel ! 

Fab.  I — I — put  the  wine  up  myself,  as  your  highness  de- 
sired,  and  had  gotten  half  way  to  the  villa,  when,  the  day 
being  hot,  I sat  down  under  a tree  by  the  road-side  to  rest  a 
minute,  and  somehow  I fell  asleep,  and 

Prince  B.  Go  on,  sirrah. 

Fab.  And,  when  I awoke,  I saw  twelve  brigands  armed  to 
the  teeth,  each  with  a bottle  of  your  highness’s  tokay,  which 
they  drained  to  the  health  of  your  highness,  and  bade  me' 
carry  the  empty  pannier  back,  with  Massaroni’s  duty  to  your 
highness. 

Prince  B.  Malpesta  ! Maladizione  ! drink  my  tokay  ! 

Nic.  ( laughing ) Ha ! ha  ! I crave  pardon,  excellenza,  but 
that  is  a capital  joke — I do  see  that ! 

Prince  B.  Oh,  you  do  see  that  ? a pannier  of  the  first 
tokay  in  the  world  ! the  present  of  his  highness  ! you  call  that 
a joke,  eh  ? (To  Fabio,)  Get  out  of  my  sight,  scoundrel  1 
{ Exit  Fabio,  r.)  I’ll  send  a messenger  to  Rome  instantly  to 
double  the  number  of  troops — to  surround  Guadagnola- — to — • 
to — don’t  stand  grinning  there,  you  old  pottering  numbskull  l 
get  to  your  College,  sir,  and  ask  leave  to  return  this  evening, 
and  guide  the  soldiers  to  the  haunt  of  this  audacious  ruffian, 
who  robs  both  church  and  state,  laughs  at  the  laws  of  the 
holy  city,  and 

Nic.  And  drinks  its  governor’s  tokay  ! ha!  I’m  gone,  ex- 
cellenza. [Exit,  l, 

Prince  B.  Drink  my  tokay ! By  the  body  of  Bacchusl * 

Enter  Ottavia,  r. 

Ott.  (r.  c.)  My  dear  uncle ! you  seem  ruffled  ? 

Prince  B.  Ruffled  ! I’m  ruffled,  robbed,  plundered,  and 
insulted  ! but  that  vidain  Massaroni  shall  suffer  for  it 

Ott.  Massaroni! 


THE  BRIGAND. 


21 


sc.  i.] 


Prince  B.  Yes,  your  heroical  robber  ! The  polite  assassin, 
you  and  your  lady  friends  are  so  enchanted  with ; who  takes 
your  snuff-box  with  the  same  air  he  would  beg  a pinch  from 
it ; pockets  your  watch  with  as  many  excuses  as  if  he  only 
stopped  you  to  ask  what  o’clock  it  was;  and  cuts  a Miroat  in 
so  gentlemanly  a manner,  that  the  most  fastidious  traveller 
was  never  heard  to  complain  of  it  afterwards. 

Ott.  Nay,  uncle;  I am  sure  I never  defended  his  lawless 
acts,  or  denied  the  necessity  of  repressing  them,  but  I have 
more  than  once  had  occasion  to  admire  his  generosity,  his  un- 
equalled contempt  of  danger,  and  the  flashes  of  honorable  and 
high  feeling,  which  gleam  at  intervals  through  the  cloud  of 
crime  around  him. — Now,  my  dear  uncle,  remember  his  be- 
haviour to  the  poor  girl  of  Fondi ! Did  he  not  Seize  the 
lordly  seducer,  Count  D’Amalfi,  carry  him  up  into  the  moun- 
tains, compel  him  to  marry  her,  and  settle  the  heavy  ransom 
demanded  upon  the  mother  and  child  he  would  have  so  bar- 
barously abandoned  ? And  then  did  he  not — [the  Prince 
greatly  agitated ,) — what  is  the  matter,  sir  ? you  seem  in  pain  ? 

Prince  B.  ( Turning  away,  and  crowing  to  r.)  Nothing, 
nothing  ; this  cursed  gout — an  ugly  twinge. 

Ott.  Surely  you,  sir,  whose  kind  and  noble  spirit  must  rise 
indignantly  against  the  wanton  libertine  and  the  heartless 

seducer,  whose  cheek  I have  seen  grow  pale  when dear 

uncle,  you  are  in  pain,  in  much  pain  ? 

Prince  B.  [endeavoring  to  conceal  his  emotion)  In  tortures! 
don’t  talk  to  me  ! I can’t  bear  it ! you  know  I can’t,  and  yet, 
there  you  stand,  chatter,  chatter,  while  you  see  me  writhing 
under  this  infernal  malady.  ( Wildly ) Why  do  you  look  at  me 
as  if  you  doubted  my  words  ? The  pain  is  here,  in  my  hand, 
I tell  you!  It’s  true,  it  goes  to  my  heart,  like  a knife  ! But 
you  care  not — you  see  me  suffer,  and  add  to  my  pangs  by 
‘aunts  and  sarcasms  ? 

Ott.  I — I taunt  you.  sir  ? 

Prince  B.  Ha  ! ha ! threaten  him,  compel  him  to  marry 
her  at  the  dagger’s  point ! What,  could  the  stiletto  of  an 
assassin  strike  terror  into  the  heart  of  one  who  had  seen  un- 
moved the  victim  of  his  treachery  grovelling  at  his  feet,  with 
clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes,  imploring  death,  in  lieu  of 
desertion  ? Was  the  pointed  knife  sharper  than  her  last  cry, 
when  he  broke  from  her  grasp,  and  saw  the  long  dark  hair  ho 
had  doated  on  scattered  by  handsful  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
that  howled  after  him  in  scorn.  If  he  could  bear  that 


22 


THE  BRIGAND 


[act  ii 


Ott.  Dear  sir,  be  calm.  [She  pulls  the  chair  forward 

Prince  B.  Thirty  years — thirty  years  ! and  the  sting  is  as 
keen  as  ever  ! Must  I go  down  to  the  grave  with  the  barb  in 
my  heart ! Penance  can’t  pluck  it  out,  nor  purchased  pardon 
deaden  the  throe.  [ Sinks  into  the  chair. 

Ott.  ( kneeling  affectionately  hy  his  side)  What  words 
are  these  ? — uncle,  dear  uncle ! 

Prince  B.  Ottavia,  good  girl ! I — pshaw  ! I grow  old  and 
feeble,  I cannot  bear  pain ; don’t  mind  my  pettish  words — dry 
your  eyes,  silly  girl ; when  this  tyrant  gout  afflicts  me,  I do 
say  harsh  things,  but  I don’t  mean  them,  child ; — I have  a 
birthday  present  for  you.  (. Rising  and  drawing  a morocco  case 
from  his  pocket)  Baubles,  mere  baubles;  but  girls  are  pleased 
with  them  ; egad ! and  I think  they’d  hit  the  taste  of  yout 
friend  Massaroni,  if  he  could  get  a peep  at  them  : but  I have 
some  bracelets  of  another  description  ready  for  him  ; ha  ! ha ! 
(Laughing  faintly)  I’m  easy  now,  and  can  laugh  again  ; but 
it  is  plaguey  sharp  while  it  lasts,  wench,  I promise  you — ha ! 
ha  ! ha  U [Exit  r.,  forcing  a laugh . 

Ott.  (c.)  My  poor  uncle  ! I never  saw  him  so  moved  be- 
fore ; but  what  is  this  he  has  given  me?  bracelets  did  he  say  2 
( Opens  the  casket)  What  superb  brilliants  ! Dear,  kind  old 
man  ! he  lavishes  a fortune  on  me  ! What  a pity  so  good, 
so  generous  a creature  should  ever  know  a moment’s  pain, 
I’m  sure  he  cannot  deserve  to  suffer — I must  run  after  him, 
and  give  him  a hundred  kisses  for  his  splendid  present. 

Enter  Albert,  l. 

Alb.  A hundred  kisses,  Ottavia,  the  present  must  be  splen- 
did, indeed,  that  deserves  so  rich  an  acknowledgment. 

Ott.  Albert,  I began  to  think  you  had  forgotten  it  was  my 
birth-day. 

Alb.  Theodore  would  make  so  many  sketches  ; I threaten- 
ed at  last  to  leave  him  on  the  road. 

Ott.  And  have  you  done  so,  as  he  is  not  with  you  ? 

Alb.  No ; he  has  ridden  to  Rome  on  some  business  : he 
will  return  shortly. 

Ott.  (Showing  the  jewels)  See,  this  is  the  present  I spoke 
of. 

Alb.  Magnificent,  indeed ! 

Ott.  With  this  and  the  necklace  my  mother  gave  me,  I 
shall  look  as  fine  as  the  lady  in  the  picture  that  Theodore 
calls  the  Queen  of  Diamonds ; by-the-bye,  Albert,  you  pro- 


sc.  i."|  THE  BRIGAND.  23 

mised  to  tell  me  why  there  is  always  a curtain  drawn  before 
that  portrait. 

Alb.  Oh,  ’tis  a common  custom  so  to  preserve  choice  paint- 
ings : there  is  a Guido,  you  know,  in  the  Farnese  Palace, 
that 

[See  Music  ready,  l. 

Ott.  Nay,  nay;  you  said  there  was  a story  about  it,  and  1 
remember  once  I found  my  uncle  looking  at  it ; and  when  he 
saw  me,  he  dragged  back  the  curtain,  and  was  so  agitated,  so 
furious. 

Alb.  Why,  then,  I have  heard,  but  I know  not  how  truly, 
that  it  is  the  portrait  of  a young  Florentine  peasant,  to  whom 
the  Prince  was  much  attached  : some  circumstances  prevented 
their  union,  and  she  died,  I believe — but  the  rumor  is  so  vague  : 
however,  he  certainly  was  fond  of  her,  for,  when  I restored  the 
parts  which  the  damp  had  injured,  he  desired  I would  alter 
the  dress  from  the  simple  costume  of  Florence  to  the  richest 
robes  and  ornaments  a princess  could  wear — uSuch,”  he  add- 
ed, with  a deep  groan,  “ should  have  been  her  rank,  and  as 
such  shall  she  even  now  be  painted !” 

Ott.  Poor  uncle  ! it  is  no  doubt  her  loss  which  p ey-  so 
heavily  at  times  upon  his  spirits.  But  I must  go  and  thank 
him  for  this  new  proof  of  his  kindness  : will  you  come  with 
me,  Albert? 

Alb.  I’ll  follow  you  upon  the  instant.  ( Exit  Ott  avia,  r.)  1 
am  all  anxiety  for  the  return  of  Theodore  ; should  he  not  be 
able  to  raise  the  sum,  what  resource  ? The  governor — 1 dare 
not  trust  him — he  would  laugh  my  scruples  to  scorn,  and  the 
forfeit  of  my  word  might  bring  destruction  on  his  head  and 
my  beloved  Ottavia’s.  “ The  vengeance  of  Massaroni  is  sweep- 
ing as  it  is  sure,”  those  were  his  parting  words.  ( Wind  instru- 
ments play , p.p.,  without,  3 e.  l.,  and  Alb.  speaks  through  it. 
Forte  as  Mas.  enters .)  Hark  ! a carriage ! the  guests  are  al- 
ready arriving : if,  amongst  them,  I could  find  a friend 

{Goes  up  r.) 

Enter  Massaroni  in  full  dress , decorated  with  several  orders . 
preceded,  by  Yager  and  two  Servants , 2 e.  l. 

Yag.  Whom  shall  I have  the  honor  to  announce,  signor? 

Mas.  ( With  an  assumed  air.)  The  Count  di  Strozzi. 

Yag.  The  Count  di  Strozzi ! 

Mas.  The  Count  di  Strozzi  ! Strozzi ! Strozzi  ! (2  actions  of 


24  THE  BRIGAND.  [act  it. 

dismissal  with  the  hand.  Yager  exit,  l e.  r.  Servants  take 
chair  off, \ 2 e.  l.) 

Alb.  (advancing,  l.  c.)  The  Count  di  Strozzi ! (starting.) 
Heavens  ! can  I believe  my  sight  ? 

Mas.  (crossing  to  c.)  And  why  not,  my  young  Raphael  ? 
1 said  I would  send  those,  ere  midnight,  who  should  receive 
your  ransom,  or  take  you  back  again  ? I knew  not  any  of 
my  troop  so  fit  to  be  trusted  as  myself. 

Alb.  But  do  you  know  before  whose  gate  you  stand  ? 

Mas.  Cospetto  ! to  be  sure  I do  ; the  Prince  Bianchi’s,  the 
governor  of  Rome,  a gay,  noble-hearted  old  gentleman,  whom 
I respect  sincerely,  notwithstanding  his  vigorous  measures 
against  me — he  would  hang  me  if  he  could  catch  me- — ’tis  his 
duty  to  do  so-"— I don’t  quarrel  with  him  for  that — -but  I do 
not  chose  to  be  hanged  if  I can  help  it,  and  that  vexes  him, 
and  makes  him  sometimes,  I am  told,  say  harsh  things  of  me ; 
but  that’s  no  reason  why  I should  not  pay  him  a visit  of  ce- 
remony. 

Alb.  I cannot  conquer  my  astonishment ! 

Mas.  (looking  about  him.)  Corpi  di  me  ! (crossing  to  l., 
Albert  crosses  behind  Massaroni,  to  r.  h.)  But  he’s  well 
lodged  here.  The  governor  ! I have  never  before  examined 
his  villa  so  closely. 

Alb.  (r.)  Fly,  wretched  man ! I owe  you  life,  and  cannot 
see  you  thus  madly  walk  into  the  very  mouth  of  destruction. 
Should  the  governor  recognize  you — — 

Mas.  He  ! fear  nothing : we  have  never  yet  met. 

Alb.  But  he  receives  friends  to-night;  and,  amongst 
them 

Mas.  Ah  ! you  do  me  the  honor  to  suppose  I now  and 
then  see  good  company.  I will  risk  the  meeting  of  a few  old 
acquaintances — they’ll  not  dream  of  seeing  me  here,  and  you 
and  your  friend,  I know,  will  not  betray  me. 

Alb.  Massaroni,  mean  you  wrong  or  violence  to  the  Prince 
or  his  niece  Qttavia  ? If  so,  not  e’en  my  oath 

Mas.  Be  satisfied:  unless  you  fail  in  your  promise,  I am 
here  only  as  the  Count  di  Strozzi?  colonel  in  the  Austrian  ser- 
vice, and  'his  day  arrived  at  Ronie  from  Naples,  on  my  way 
back  to  Milan.  The  count  is  expected 
• Alb.  Sir ! 

Mas.  Oh,  ye? — he’s  expected — ex-pected— but— he  cannot 
come  himself. 

Alb.  You  have  made  him  prisoner  ? 


THE  BRIGAND. 


25 


SC.  I.] 

Mas.  Humph  ! we  have  changed  places  and  clothes  for  an 
hour  or  so.  ( Laughing .)  1 thought  it  a good  opportunity  to 
come  for  the  ransom  and  pay  my  respects  to  the  governor,  so 
1 stepp’d  into  the  count’s  carriage,  and  with  two  of  my  band 
for  postillion  and  valet,  drove  boldly  up  to  the  Villa  Rosa. 
( Laughing ) Ha  ! ha ! ha ! ’tis  some  time  since  I assisted 
at  a conversazione ; ( crossing  to  r.,  affectedly ,)  but  I trust  I have 
not  forgotten  the  usages  of  so-ci-e-ty. 

Alb.  And  you  will  really  have  the  audacity  to  encounter 
and  converse  with  the  Prince  ? 

Mas.  Certainly : I have  letters  for  him  from  Naples.  I 
promised  the  Count  di  Strozzi  they  should  be  faithfully  deli- 
vered, and  I never  was  known 

Re-enter  Yager,  r. 

Yag.  {to  Massaroni.)  If  your  lordship  will  enter  the  sala, 
his  highness  will  join  you  immediately. 

Mas.  {haughtily.)  I follow  you.  ( Two  motions  of  hand — 
Ya.  exit  r.,  re-enter  bowing , to  Albert)  A rivederci.  signor — 
delighted  to  make  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance — we  will,  talk 
further  on  that  subject : my  carriage  is  not  ordered  till — mid- 
night. {Half  turns  his  head — sees  Yager,  observing .)  Mid* 
night.  A rivederci,  signor ! a rivederci ! 

[. Exeunt  Massaroni  and  Yager,  r.,  Albert,  l. 


SCENE  II. 

Corridor  in  the  Villa. 

Enter  Theodore,  r. 

The.  Here  I am,  at  last,  shaken  to  death,  galloping  over  that 
infernal  Appian  Way,  and  all  to  little  purpose.  The  hearts  I 
had  to  move  were  as  stony  as  the  road  that  led  to  them. 

Enter  Albert,  l. 

Alb.  (l.  c.)  Theodore,  what  success  ? 

The.  (c.)  Oh,  my  dear  fellow ! it’s  all  over  with  us ; the 
6um  is  not  to  be  raised ; the  counts  and  cardinals  you  referred 
me  to  were  profuse  in  their  expressions  of  sorrow,  but  kept  the 
necks  of  their  purses  screwed  round  as  tightly  as  our  necks 


THE  BRIGAND. 


26 


[act  II. 


had  like  to  have  been  this  morning.  I could  only  squeeze  a 
thousand  scudi  out  of  twenty  of  them. 

[Ring  Music  Bell. 

Alb.  Only  a thousand ! but  our  comrades,  the  students  of 
the  French  Academy 

The.  Ah  ! they,  if  you  please,  opened  their  purses  on  the 
instant,  like  noble  fellows  ; but,  then,  unfortunately  there  was 
nothing  in  them,  or  you  might  have  had  every  sou  they  pos- 
sessed in  the  world. 

Alb.  Distraction  ! only  a thousand  scudi ! I have  but  fif- 
teen hundred. 

The.  And  I have  but  five  hundred  : we  want  half  the  sum 
still. 

[See  stage  set  behind,  before  whistle. 

Alb.  And  he  is  here  to  receive  it. 

The.  He  here ! who  ? 

Alb.  ( whispering .)  Massaroni. 

The.  Mass 

Alb.  ( interrupting  him.)  Hush! 

The.  In  the  villa  ? 

Alb.  By  this  time,  in  conversation  with  the  Prince  himself, 
as  Count  di  Strozzi,  an  Italian  nobleman  in  the  Austrian  ser- 
vice. 

The.  The  devil  lie  is  ! Well,  of  all  the  audacious  tricks 

Alb.  Are  you  mad,  Theodore  ? Is  this  a theme  for  laugh- 
ter ? My  oath  and  honor  are  engaged  ; and,  were  I mean 
enough  to  violate  them,  the  carbines  of  his  band  are  even  now 
loaded  for  the  destruction  of  all  most  dear  to  me.  The  die  is 
cast : I must  return,  his  prisoner. 

The.  Indeed  you  shall  do  no  such  thing.  It  can  make  no 
difference  to  him,  provided  he  has  a hostage  ; and,  therefore, 
if  either  of  us  return,  it  shall  be  me  : you  have  a tie  to  bind 
you  to  this  spot,  in  the  person  of  your  pretty  Ottavia — there 
will  be  no  heart  broken  by  my  absence;  and  you’ll  be  able  to 
make  up  the  money,  no  doubt,  before  the  brigands  lose  their 
patience.  I shall  go  and  tell  him  so,  and  so  there’s  an  end  of 
the  business.  * [ Going  l. 

Alb.  ( stopping  him.)  You  shall  not,  Theodore — I insist — 
l implore  you ; there  is  yet  a hope — amongst  the  guests  I may 
find  a friend ; or  I will  make  some  pretence  for  borrowing  of 
the  governor. 

The.  Well  and  good.  I have  no  particular  wish  to  sleep 


sc.  n.j  THE  BRIGAND.  27 

on  the  top  of  Guadagnola  to-night,  if  the  money  can  be  raised 
— but  if  not,  either  you  go  not  at  all,  or  you  go  in  my  com- 
pany. [Exeunt  l. 


SCENE  III.  • 

A rich  Apartment  in  the  Villa. — Large  folding  doors , c.  f., 
with  windows  on  each  side  down  to  the  ground — all  openy 
to  show  the  Gardens  of  the  Villa  and  distant  Country , by 
Moonlight — a sliding  panne! , l.,  with  the  portrait  of  a 
lady  hanging  above  it , concealed  by  a red  curtain — fur- 
ther up,  l.,  a window  a few  feet  from  the  ground,  strongly 
barred — two  doors,  r. — a card-table,  l.,  with  cards,  cande- 
labra, a guitar , and  morocco  case,  with  a pair  of  rich 
bracelets — four  chairs  round  the  table — a table , with  cards , 
candelabra , and  chairs,  r. — choice  Paintings  hung  round 
the  room. 

Massaroni  discovered. 

Mas.  His  highness  takes  his  time.  Had  I sent  my  real 
name,  he  would  not  have  kept  me  so  long  waiting.  What  a 
splendid  Parmegiano  he  has  there ! [Looking  at  it  through 
his  glass.)  Indeed,  all  his  pictures  seem  excellent.  What’s 
this  ? ( Taking  up  the  case,  and  opening  it.)  Diamond  bracelets ! 
brilliants  of  the  very  first  water ! ( Advancing  to  the  front,  c.) 
Why,  they  are  . worth  a little  fortune.  How  careless,  to  leave 
such  jewels  about  a room  open  to  any  one,  ( looking  about , as 
if  half  inclined  to  pocket  them.)  Some  thieving,  prowling  va- 
gabond or  another  would  think  no  more  of  putting  them  into 
his  pocket — ( pausing  for  a moment.)  No,  no,  Massaroni! 
[Lays  them  on  the  table , and  takes  up  the  guitar .)  A pretty 
instrument,  that.  [Running  his  fingers  over  the  strings.)  I 
envy  a good  musician  : I scarcely  know  one  note  from  another 
myself.  [Humming  and  singing .)  La,  la,  tra,  la,  la  ! Will  this 
man  never  come  ? [Draws  a chair  and  begins  to  play. 

SONG. — Massaroni. 

“ Gentle  zitella, 

Whither  away? 

Love’s  ritornella, 

List  while  I play. 


28 


THE  BRIGAND. 


[act  il 

“ No — I have  linger’d 
Too  long  on  the  road, 

Night  is  advancing — 

The  brigand  abroad. 

Lonely  zitella 

Hath  too  much  to  fear, 

Love’s  ritornella 
She  may  not  hear.” 

Ottavia  ehiers,  c.  f.  r.  h.,  and  gradually  advances  r. — she 
stops  and  listens.  Massaroni  rises  and  advances  to  the 
front. 

“ Charming  zitella, 

Why  shouldst  thou  care  1 
Night  is  not  darker 
Than  thy  raven  hair. 

And  those  bright  eyes, 

If  the  brigand  should  see, 

Thou  art  the  robber — 

The  captive  is  he. 

Gentle  zitella, 

* Banish  thy  fear, 

Love’s  ritornella 
Tarry  and  hear.” 

[Ottavia  advances , r.  c. 

Mas.  ( turning , sees  Ottavia.)  Your  pardon,  signora. 
(Bows  gracefully,  and  lays  down  the  guitar  on  the  table,  l.) 

Ott.  ( returning  his  salute .)  My  uncle  has  sent  me  to  apol- 
ogize to  the  Count  di  Strozzi  for  his  delay  : but  the  Cardinal 
Secretary  has  just  arrived  at  the  villa,  and  he  was  called  to 
receive  him. 

Mas.  Signora,  I request— (Ottavia  goes  to  the  table , l.)— 
(aside)  The  Cardinal  Secretary — I shall  have  the  honor  of 
meeting  his  eminence,  also  ! What  an  opportunity  for  the 
execution  of  my  project!  Rubaldo  is  within  hearing;  a whis- 
tle from  that  terrace But  no ! I have  promised  the 

Frenchman ; and,  if  he  keeps  faith  with  me,  no  violence  shall 
occur.  (Ottavia  advances  from  the  table  with  the  case — 
opens  it , and  puts  on  one  bracelet — the  other  drops — Massa- 
roni picks  it  up.)  Signora,  permit  me — (putting  it  on  her 
arm.)  A jewel  of  price,  lady — worthy  the  arm  that  wears  it. 
Ott.  They  are  the  birthday  gift  of  my  uncle,  colonel. 

Mas.  Ah  ! this  is  your  birthday  ! I am  proud  of  arriving  in 
time  to  assist  at  such  a festival. 

Or r.  May  T ask,  colonel,  what  was  the  romance  you  were 
fcing'ug  when  I entered  ? 


THE  BRIGAND. 


29 


■c.  III.] 


Mas.  Oh  ! a simple  ballad — a ritornella  popular  amongst 
the  peasantry.  I learned  it  on  the  road. 

Ott.  I am  sure  I have  heard  it  before.  But  there  should 
be  another  verse,  methinks. 

Mas.  ( hesitating .)  Yes,  I believe  there  is  another. 

Ott.  (r.  c.)  Ay  ; the  termination  of  the  story. — Oblige  me 
with  it. 

Mas.  {aside)  Humph  ! It’s  more  than  I bargained  for  ; 
but  no  matter — {aloud)  Since  you  desire  it,  Signora — {aside) 
That  verse  speaks  of  myself,  and  might  betray  me— {goes  for 
the  guitar) — the  situation  is  singular. 

SONG — Massaroni  {continued,  c.) 

“ Simple  zitella, 

Beware  ! ah,  beware  ! 

List  ye  no  ditty, 

Grant  ye  no  prayer  ; 

To  your  light  footsteps 
Let  terror  add  wings, 

’Tis  Massaroni 

Himself,  who  now  sings.”  [Ottavia  starts. 
{Forte  note  in  orchestra  and  drums.  Massaroni  stands  over  her  in  atti- 
tude—at  length , dispelling  her  fears  by  fishing  up  her  arm  within  his, 
and  resuming  the  bland  and  piano  manner ,) 

“ Gentle  zitella, 

Banish  thy  fear, 

Love’s  ritornella 
Tarry  and  hear.” 

Ott.  (r.  c.)  I remember  it  now  perfectly  ; ’tis  one  of  the 
many  ballads  for  which  the  deeds  of  that  extraordinary  bri- 
gand has  furnished  themes.  I have  serious  battles,  you  must 
know,  with  my  uncle  about  him,  and  in  truth  I am  almost 
ashamed  to  show  so  much  interest  for  a notorious  robber — but 
girls  are  silly  romantic  creatures,  and  valor  and  generosity  are 
qualities  that  draw  largely  upon  their  admiration. 

Mas.  And  you  are  charitable  enough  to  give  him  credit  for 
their  possession  ? 

Ott.  Nay,  they  have  been  too  often  manifested  to  admit  of 
dispute,  even  by  his  bitterest  enemies.  {Music  without  in  or- 
chestra.) But  here  comes  my  uncle  and  his  Eminence. 

Enter  four  Servants  from  the  Garden,  and  range  on  r.  and 
l. — the  Prince's  Chasseur  preceding  the  Prince  Bianchi, 
the  Cardinal,  Count  Carrafa,  and  the  Banker , followed 
by  Ladies  and  Gentlemen.  Serv.  put  l.  table  and  cards  and 
throe  chairs  forward  to  1 e.  l.  h. 


SO  THE  BRIGAND.  [act  ii. 

Prince  B.  Count  di  Strozzi,  a thousand  excuses — my 

niece,  1 trust,  has  explained 

Mas.  (l.)  Most  satisfactorily,  excellenza  ! I have  the  honor 
to  present  your  highness  with  these  letters  from  Naples. 

[ Gives  three  letters , 

Prince  B.  Delighted  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  Count 
di  Strozzi. 

(Prince  introduces  Count  C.  and  Cardinal  to  Mas. — Cardi- 
nal bestows  benediction  on  Mas.,  who  receives  it  on  his  knee 
and  laughs  apart . Prince  sits  r.  of  table  l.,  and  plays 
with  Count  C.  at  tcarte — Mas.  looks  on  at  game.) 

Enter  Theodore  and  Albert,  from  the  garden — Theodore 
crosses  to  r.  corner. 

The.  There  he  stands,  sure  enough— with  what  surprising 
coolness.  I wish  1 had  my  sketch-book.  [Music  Piano — 
a quadrille  is  performed  in  the  garden  by  the  guests.) 

Alb.  (c.  to  Theodore)  Joy,  joy!  There  is  a wealthy  bank 
er  here,  he’s  now  talking  to  the  Cardinal — I have  some  inter- 
est with  him,  and  have  little  doubt  but  I can  obtain  a loap 
upon  my  own  bill.  I will  watch  the  moment  he  leaves  his  em- 
inence, under  pretence  of  a loss  at  the  card-table. 

The.  Good!  good!  (The  Cardinal  bows  to  the  Banker, 
who  retires  to  the  garden .)  He  leaves  him  now.  (Albert  fol 
lows  the  Banker — Ottavia  advances  to  r.  of  Theodore.) 

Ott.  Where  is  your  sketch-book,  Theodore  ? I want  to 
see  what  views  you  have  taken  to-day. 

The.  They  are  not  worth  looking  at  in  their  rough  state 
— stay  till  I have  made  drawings  of  them  ; they  are  mere 
memoranda. 

Ott.  I should  like  to  see  them  so,  and  I insist  on  your  pro- 
ducing them — I want  to  show  them  to  my  friends. 

The.  No,  no  ! I have  my  reasons  ! 

Ott.  Don’t  tell  me  of  I'ea^ons,  sir,  I shall  go  fetch  the  book 
— I know  where  it  is.  \_Runs  out  r.  d. 

The.  You  do  not  indeed  ! — harkye,  Ottavia!  Ottavia  ! 

[ Runs  after  her , r.  d. — Quadrille  and  music  cease — Count 


[Special  Note. — From  the end  of  Prince B.’s  last  speech,  “De- 
lighted to  make  acquaintance  with  the  Count  di  Strozzi  V*  Music, 
p.  p.  in  orchestra , which  continues  during  dialogue , until  conclusion  of 
Theodore’s  speech  of— “ You  do  not  indeed  I harkye,  Ottavia!  Ofr 
h via  !”  ) 


THE  BRIGAND. 


31 


sc.  III.*] 

Carrafa  rises  from  the  card-table , l.,  and  joins  the  Cardi- 
nal,  l.  u.  e. — Servants  hand  refreshments. 

Count  B.  (to  Massaroni.)  Will  you  play? 

[ Pointing  to  the  chair  that  Carrafa  has  just  left. 
Mas.  With  pleasure.  (Takes  his  seat,  l. — they  play.  A 
waltz  is  danced  here.) 

Prince  B.  Your  residence  is  at  Milan,  my  lord  ? 

Mas.  I have  no  fixed  residence,  your  highness ; I love 
change  and 

Prince  B.  Ay,  you  travel  a great  deal  ? 

Mas.  Why,  yes — 1 may  almost  say  I live  on  the  highway. 
( They  play — Prince  loses) 

Count  C.  (near  the  Governor)  You  are  a native  of  Italy, 
I believe  ? 

Mas.  Of  Florence. 

Prince  B.  (agitated)  Of  Florence  ? (Mas.  has  placed 
cards  for  Prince  to  cut , who  suddenly  drops  them) 

Mas.  Is  your  highness  unwell  ? 

Prince  B.  (concealing  his  emotion)  Nothing — a slight  pain 
— ’tis  gone  (plays)  What  cards  you  hold  ! the  game  is 
your’s,  count. 

Mas.  (pointedly)  This  is  positively  robbing  you ! (takes 
a rouleau,  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket)  Massaroni  could  scarce- 
ly use  you  worse,  (looking  Prince  full  in  face) 

Prince  B.  What,  you’ve  heard  of  that  rascal’s  proceedings, 

have  you  ? I shall  stop  him  shortly,  though — I intend 

Mas.  Indeed  ! (Aside)  This  may  be  worth  hearing.  (Aloud) 
You  intend,  then 

Prince  B.  Oh,  I intend — a word  in  your  ear,  for  the  ras- 
cal has  spies  everywhere*  (Speaking  confidentially  to  him,) 
It’s  ten  to  one  but  I take  him  this  very  night. 

Mas.  No! 

Prince  B.  Yes ! Between  you  and  me,  I know  where  to 
lay  hands  upon  him  at  this  moment. 

Mas.  No  ? 

Prince.  Yes  ! [. Placing  his  hand  on  Massaroni’s  arm. 

Mas.  He  may  escape  you  yet,  your  highness. 

Prince  B.  But  I have  information 

Mas.  Oh ! if  you  have  information 

Prince  B.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  (laughing)  He  played  an  old 
fellow,  the  steward  of  St.  Arnulph’s,  such  a trick  this  morn- 
ing— ho ! ho ! I must  tell  you  about  that  presently.  He’s  an 
impudent  scoundrel. 


32 


THE  BRIGAND. 


[act  II. 


Mas.  Oh!  he’s  an  infernal  rascal! 

Prince  B.  Would  you  believe  it,  he  drank  my  health  iu 
some  of  my  own  wine  that  he  stopped  on  the  road. 

Mas.  ( who  has  just  taken  a glass  of  wine  from  a ser- 
vant, l.)  Admirable! — My  lord — I have  the  honor 

[Drinks,  and  bows  to  the  Prince, 

Prince  B.  Thank  you,  thank  you — it’s  your  play. 

Enter  an  Officer,  from  the  garden , r.  c.  f.  down  c. 

Off.  ( advancing  to  Prince  Bianchi.)  The  detachment 
your  highness  sent  for  is  arrived. 

Prince  B.  Let  it  halt  for  a few  minutes  ; I will  give  some 
further  orders  and  a guide.  [Exit  Officer , r.  c.  f. 

Mas.  [aside)  Humph!  A detachment,  said  he  ? [Aloud) 
An  expedition — so  late  ? 

Prince  B.  Oh,  I am  determined  to  come  to  close  quarters 
with  the  scoundrel ; strike  a bold  blow  at  once,  and- — con- 
found the  cards — you  have  emptied  my  pockets,  Count. 

Mas.  [laughing.)  Ha ! ha ! I’ve  a knack  that  way. 

Prince  B.  [rising)  [As  Prince  B.  rises , servants  clear 
table  and  chairs  back.)  I must  leave  you  a moment  to  des- 
patch these  troops,  [to  Massaroni.)  Should  I let  this  fellow 
slip 

Mas.  O pray  do  not  consider  me.  [Aside)  ’Tis  near  the 
time. 

Prince  B.  [to  the  Cardinal,  r.)  A word  with  your  emi- 
nence. [Exeunt  Governor  and  Cardinal,  through , c. 

Mas.  [aside,  and  looking  round  him)  I see  him  not ! Is 
this  ransom  forthcoming.  [To  Count  Carrafa,  who  is 
taking  snuff, \ r.)  That  is  a handsome  box,  signor. 

Count  C.  It  was  given  me  by  the  king  of  Naples — do  you 
take  any  thing  in  this  way  ? [ Offering  the  box . 

Mas.  [Examining  the  box , and  taking  a pinch  from  it) 
Sometimes. 

Enter  Ottavia,  with  Theodore’s  sketch-book , 1 e.  r. 

Ott.  [laughingly  to  the  Ladies , who  crowd  round  her) 
Here,  here  ! I’ve  snatched  it  from  him,  he  follows  me — don’t 
let  him  have  it.  See,  are  they  not  pretty ! There’s  Tivoli, 
and  there’s  Genzano — and  mercy  on  us,  Massaroni ! 

Mas.  (l.  c.  starting)  Massaroni! 

Ott.  ’Tis  so  written  under.  What  a spirited  sketch  ! But 
where  could  he  see  him  ? and — well — ( looking  first  at  drauh 

2 


bc.  in/]  THE  BRIGAND.  33 

ing , and  then  at  Massaroni,)  how  very  singular!  would  not 
any  one,  now 

[Prompter  ready  at  drum  and  to  close,  c.  d, 

Mas.  {aside.)  Confidence  must  carry  it.  {Aloud)  Permit 

me,  signora- {taking  the  drawing  from  hert  and  crossing 

to  c.  Ladies  retire  a little.) 

Enter  Theodore,  hastily , r. 

The.  My  book,  Ottavia,  I entreat 

Mas.  Your  pardon,  a moment.  {Laughing)  Ha,  ha  ! did 
you  make  this  drawing,  signor  ? 

The.  {confused.)  I — I — from  fancy,  merely. 

Mas.  So  I should  presume ; for,  though  a masterly  sketch; 
it  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  personage  whose  name  is  writ- 
ten beneath  it.  I was  once  face  to  face  with  him,  and  there- 
fore can  speak  positively.  {Laughing,)  Ha,  ha!  ( Holding  up 
the  drawing.)  Gad  ! now  I look  at  it,  it’s  more  like  me  than 
Massaroni.  [ Gives  drawing  to  Theodore,  who  goes  up  with 
Ladies. 

Enter  Nicolo,  c.,  from  the  garden. 

Ladies. 

Ott.  Nic.  Mass. 

R.  L. 

Nic.  (To  Ottavia.)  Your  pardon,  signora,  but  his  high- 
ness desired  me (sees  Massaroni.)  Ah  ! ah! 

Mas.  (Aside)  The  steward  of  St.  Arnulph  ! 

Nic.  (Screaming  out.)  Massaroni!  murder!  murder! 
Omnes.  Massaroni ! 

[All  hurry  out , c.  d.  f. — Prompter  closes  c.  d.  p.  after  they 
are  out.  Drum  beats  to  arms.  Distant  ready  again.  Mas- 
saroni is  left  in  the  apartment , thunderstruck  with  the  sud- 
denness of  his  capture. 

Mas.  Discovered!  Curses!  No  escape ! {Tries  the  doors.) 
All  fast ! this  window — ( tries  window  l.)  barred,  past  hope  ! 

Fool ! fool ! for  a mad  frolic,  thus -but  I am  not  yet  taken. 

(Taking  a brace  of  pistols  from  his  pocket,  and  a stiletto  from 
his  bosom — one  of  the  former  he  places  on  the  table.)  I will 
sell  my  life  dearly,  and  the  sound  of  fire-arms  will  reach  the 
ears  of  Rubaldo ! My  death  shall  at  least  be  revenged  ! Ah, 

that  curtain  ! Should  there  be  a window  there (Draws 

the  curtain , l.,  and  discovers  the  portrait.)  Merciful  powers  ! 


[Ring  Music  Bell. 


34 


THE  BRIGAND. 


[act  KE. 


what  do  I see?  that  face — that  well  known  face  ! ( Snatches 
the  miniature  from  his  bosom , and  com/pares  it  with  the  por- 
trait,) It  is,  it  is  my  mother.  [Falls  on  his  knees,  c. 

Enter  Theodore,  hastily , l.,  as  the  pannel  beneath  the 
picture  slides  back. 

The.  Massaroni,  you  saved  our  lives — we  will  save  yours 
— follow  me — Albert  waits  for  you  at  the  end  of  the  corridor 
with  the  ransom : fly  while  there  is  yet  time. 

Mas.  Tell  me,  tell  me,  for  the  love  of  mercy,  whose  portrait 
is  that  ? 

The.  I know  not ; a young  Florentine’s.  Is  this  a moment 
— ( Distant  drums  beat  to  arms — o.  d.  ready.)  Hark ! they 
come. 

Mas.  I care  not — speak ! if  you  have  a heart,  say — tell  me 
whose  portrait  is  that  ? 

The.  Albert  can  tell  you  more — this  way,  he  waits  for  you. 

Mas.  Where?  where?  (Bushing  through  the  opening  in  the 
pannel,  followed  by  Theodore,  1 e.  l.) 


Enter  Officers  and  Soldiers, followed  by  Nicolo,  Prince  Bian- 
chi,  Ottavia,  and  Guests , c.  d.  f.  [Drum,  rolls  loudly  till 
all  are  on.  Soldiers,  headed  by  Officer , advance , double 
file,  down  c.,  the  r.  h.  line  of  men  only  having  loaded  mus- 
kets.] 

o o o o o 
O I5  Soldiers. 

CD 

r*  o o o o 

Prince  B.  (c.)  Escaped  ! 

Nic.  (l.)  By  this  window. 

Prince  B.  "impossible  J Ah  ! the  sliding  pannel ! but  we 
have  him  yet ; some  of  you  that  way.  (l.  h.  file  of  soldiers 
go  off  with  Officer,  pannel  l.  1 e.)  The  rest  to  the  window  ! 
(r.  h.  file  of  soldiers  left  face  and  present  guns  through  bars 
of  window,  2 e.  l.  advancing  two  paces  in  line.)  The  is- 
sue from  that  gallery  is  by  yonder  door ; be  ready,  and  the 
moment  it  opens — — 

Ott.  Uncle,  uncle,  slay  him  not — have  mercy  1 
Prince  B.  What,  on  a robber ! an  assassin  ! justice  must 
takes  its  course. 

Nic.  ( Mounting  a chair,  and  overlooking  the  Soldiery.)  He 
is  there ! 

Prince  B.  Fire ! 

[The  Soldiers  fire  out  of  the  window,  n.  fc  e. 


THE  BRIGAND. 


35 


•c.  HI.] 

Ott.  All ! ( Shrieks , and  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.) 

Nic.  He  is  hit ! {A  pause.)  He  staggers  ! (A  pause ; Sol 
diers  recover  arms , right-face , march  down  and  range  l. 
side.)  He  falls  ! {Jumps  from  chair.) 

Enter  Albert  and  Theodore,  hastily , from  the  pannel. 

Alb.  (l.  c.,  to  Prince  Bianchi.)  What  have  you  done  ? 

Prince  B.  My  duty ! society  is  avenged. 

Alb.  {Pointing  to  the  picture.)  So  is  Olympia ! 

Prince  B.  Olympia ! 

Alb.  She  was  his  mother. 

Prince  B.  {with  a cry  of  horror.)  My  son ! my  son ! 
{Falls  into  the  arms  of  his  servants , r.  c.  Massaroni  re- 
enters l.  of  c.  d.  f.,  one  arm  out  of  his  jacket , with  drawn 
stilletto — face  bloody , fyc.  He  makes  for  the  Prince  to  stab 
him.  Albert  interposes.  Mas.  drops  stilletto.) 

Mas.  The  Prince  Bianchi  is  my  father — that,  that  was  my 
mother ! {Falls  centre.  Maria  screams  without , and  rushes  in 
L.  c.  flat ; goes  to  Mas.,  kneels  by  him , c.,  holding  crucifix 
for  him  to  kiss.  The  Officer  and  Soldiers  drive  Brigands  in 
c.from  l. — they  kneel  on  r.,  Soldiers  l.  and  c.,  level  at  them, 
forming  the  last  picture  from  East  lake's  Series,  “ The  Dying 
Brigand.”) 


CURTAIN SLOW  TO  MUSIC. 


THE  END 


<i  ■ 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD  DRAM  A. 


STbe  Sic  tins  25  toft  foil. 
No.  CLXXXIX. 


T HE 


I’OOR  OP  NEW  YORK. 


% grama  in  Jfihr  %tiz. 


BY  THE  * * * * CLUB. 


TO  WHICH  ARK  ADDEP 

t *e»cription  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  ExlU»- 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and  the  whole  of  thf 
Stage  Business 


^crformeb  st  $Ua(  laths  ®ljtatre,  December,  1SSI. 


-7 


New  York  # 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 


PUBLISHER 

28-30  WEST  38th  STREET 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 
26  Southampton  Street, 
STRAND 


Cast  of  the  Characters. — [The  Poor  ok  New  York.J 


Captain  Fairweather, 

WaJlack's  Theatre,  December , 1861 
Mr.  Blake. 

Gideon  Bloodgood, 

- Mr.  Norton. 

Badger,  - 

- - Mr.  Lester. 

Mark  Livingston*, 

- Mr.  Sothern. 

Paul,  - 

- Mr.  A.  H.  Davenport 

Pf.'FFY,  - 

- Mr.  Sloan. 

Dak, 

Daniels,  .... 

- - Mr.  Tree. 

Edwards,  - 

Mr.  Levere. 

Mrs  Fairweather, 

- Mrs.  Blake. 

Mrs.  Puffy,  - 

. • - Mrs.  Cooke 

A LIT)  A, 

- Mrs.  Hoey. 

Lucy,  ----- 

Mrs.  J.  H.  Allen. 

Costume  —MODERN. 

The  First  Act  occurs  duiing  the  Commercial  Panic  of  1837  Th« 
remainder  of  the  Drama  takes  place  during  the  Panic  of  1867. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance,  Left.  R.  First  Entrance,  Right.  S E.  L 
Second  Entrance , Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Right.  U.  E.  I. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance,  Right.  C.  Centra 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance , 
heft.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R. 
Looh  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Lett.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door , Left.  U.  D.  R, 
Upper  Door , Right. 

***  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  y ear  One  Tnoueand  Eight  Hundrei  and  Fifty  Serna, 
hv  Dion  BOT70icaui»t,  In  the  Cleric’s  pflipe  oj  the  Distrip  Cpqrt  of  the  United 
iff  the  S«M|thgri)  PJats-'ot  of  New  Yorlu 


THE  POOR  OF  NEW  YORK. 


ACT  I. 


|) attic  of  1S3Z. 


SCENE. — The  private  office  of  a,  banking  house  in  New  York;  doot 

ai  back , leading  to  the  Bank  ; Door  l.  h.,  leading  to  a side  street, 

GcdeoR  Bloodgood  seated,  c.,  at  desk. 

Enter  Edwards,  l.  h.  d.  f.,  with  a sheet  of  paper. 

Edw.  The  stock  list,  sir ; — second  board  of  brokers. 

Blood.  [Rising  eagerly .]  Let  me  see  it.  Tell  the  cashier  to  close 
the  Bank  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  dismiss  the  clerks.  [Reads. 

[ExifEtH WARDS. 

So — as  I expected,  every  stock  is  down  further  still,  and  my  last  effort 
to  retrieve  my  fortune  has  plunged  me  into  utter  ruin  'l  [Crushes  up 
the  paper.]  To-morrow,  my  drafts  to  the  amount  of  eighty  thousand 
dollars  will  be  protested.  To-morrow,  yonder  street,  now  so  still,  will 
be  filled  with  a howling  multitude,  for  the  house  of  Bloodgood;  the 
Banker,  will  fail,  and  in  its  fall  will  crush  hundreds,  thousands,  who 
have  their  fortunes  laid  up  here. 

Re-enter  Edwards. 

Edw.  Here  are  the  keys  of  the  safe  sir,  and  the  vault.  [Leaves 
keys  on  desk  and  shews  a check  to  Bloodgood.  ) The  building  com- 
mittee of  St.  Peter’s  new  church  have  applied  for  your  donation.  It 
is  a thousand  dollars. 

Blood.  Pay  it.  [Exit  Edwards.)  To-morrow,  New  York  will  ring 
from  Union  Square  to  the  Battery  with  the  news — “ Bloodgood  hai* 
absconded”— but  to-morrow  1 shall  be  safe  on  board  the  packet  for 
Liverpool — all  is  prepared  for  my  flight  with  my  only  care  in  life, 
my  only  hope — my  darling  child — her  fortune  is  secure — [rise.*.)  The 
affair  will  blow  over ; Bloodgood’s  bankruptcy  will  soon  be  forgot- 
ten in  the  whirl  of  New  York  trade,  but  Alida,  my  dear  Alida  will  b« 
safe  from  want. 


* THE  POOR  Or  NEW  YORK. 

Re-enter  Edwards. 

Edw.  Here,  .sir,  are  tlie  dralts  on  the  Bank  of  England,  70,000 
dollars.  \ Hands  papers  to  Bloodgood,  who  'places  them  in  his 
poeki-book. 

Bio  d Are  the  clerks  all  gone  ? 

Edw.  All,  sir,  except  Mr.  Badger. 

Blood.  Badger  ! the  most  negligent  of  all ! That  is  strange. 

Edw.  His  entries  are  behindhand,  he  says,  and  he  is  balancing 
his  books. 

Blood . Desire  him  to  come  to  me.  [Kits.  Exit  Edwards. 

Enter  Badger,  smoking  cigar. 

Bad.  You  have  asked  for  me. 

Blood.  Yes  ; you  are  strangely  attentive  to  business  to-day,  Mr 
Badger. 

Bad.  Everything  has  a beginning. 

Blood.  Then  you  will  please  to  begin  to-morrow. 

Bad.  To-morrow ! no  sir,  my  business  must  be  done  to-day. 
Carpe  diem — make  most  of  to-day — that’s  my  philosophy. 

Blood.  Mr.  Badger,  Philosophy  is  not  a virtue  in  a banker’s  clerk. 

Bad.  Think  not  1 

Blood.  [Impatiently.]  Neither  philosophy  nor  impertinence.  You 
are  discharged  from  my  employment. 

Bad.  Pardon  me ! I do  not  catch  the  precise  word. 

Blood.  [Sternly.]  Go,  sir,  go ! I discharge  you. 

Bad.  Go  ! — discharge  me  1 I am  still  more  in  the  dark,  I can 
understand  my  services  not  being  required  in  a house  that  goes  on, 
but  where  the  house  is  ready  to  burst  up  the  formality  of  telling  a 
clerk  he  is  discharged,  dk^s  seem  to  me  an  unnecessary  luxury. 

Blood.  [Troubled. J T do  not  understand  you,  sir. 

Bad.  [Seating  himself  on  a desk , deliberately  dangling  his  legs. J 
No.!  well  I’ll  dot  my  i’s  and  cross  my  t’s,  and  make  myself  plain  to 
the  meanest  capacity.  In  business  there  are  two  ways  of  getting 
rich,  one  hard,  slow  and  troublous:  this  is  called  la]?or ; — 

Blood.  Sir  ! 

Bad.  Allow  me  to  finish.  The  other  easy,  quick  and  demanding 
nothing  but  a pliant  conscience  and  a da  -ing  mind — is  now  pleasantly 
denominated  financiering — hut  when  New  York  was  honest,  it  was 
('idled  fraudulent  bankruptcy,  that  was  before  you  and  T were  born. 

Blood.  What  do  yon  mean?  , 

Bad.  i mean  that  for  more  than  two  years  1 have  watched  yout 
business  transactions;  when  you  thought  me  idle,  my  eyes  were  every- 
where : in  your  books,  in  your  safe,  in  your  vaults  ; if  you  doubt  m# 
question  me  about  your  operations  for  the  last  three  months. 

Blood.  This  is  infamous  ! 

Bad.  That  is  precisely  the  word  I used  when  I came  bo  the  end  of 
your  hooks. 

BAw  [ Outside .J  This  way,  sit. 


THE  POOR  OP  NEW  TORE. 


S 


Writer  Edwards,  with  Faptatn  Fair-weather 

Wood.  [ To  Badger,  in  alarm.]  Not  a word. 

Bad.  A "M 'right. 

Kdw.  [Introducing  Captain  F.J  This*  is  Mr.  Blood  good 

Capt.  Glad  to  see  you,  sir.  You  wilJ  pardon  my  intruding  st 
an  hour  when  the  bank,  I am  told,  is  closed. 

Blood.  I am  at  your  service,  sir. 

[He  make*  a sig  ■>  for  Ba  dg  eh  to  retire , but  the  latter  revia  n 

Bad.  [To  Captain.]  You  may  sneak,  sir  ; Mr.  Bloodgood  has  n 
secrets  from  me.  1 fm  in  his  confidence. 

Capt.  [<Si7,a.]  1 am  a sea-captain,  in  the  India  Trade.  My  voy- 
ages are  of  the  longest,  and  thus  1 am  obliged  to  leave  my  woe  and 
i wo  children  alim  si  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances.  1 was  speimmg 
a happy  month  with  my  darlings  at  a little  cosy  place  I have  at 
Yonkers  while  my  ship  was,  loading,  when  this  internal  commercial 
squall  set  in — alt  my  fortune,  100,000  dollars,  the  fruits  of  thirty 
years’  hard  toil — was  invested  in  the  United  States  Bank — it  was 
the  livelihood  of  my  wife — the  food  of  my  little  children— I hur- 
tled to  my  brokers  and  sold  out.  I saved  myself  just  in  time. 

Blood.  1 admire  your  promptitude. 

Capt.  To-morrow  I sail  for  China  ; for  the  laet  three  weeks  I ha  ve 
worried  my  brains  to  think  how  I should  bestow  my  money— to-day 
I bethought  me  of  your  house — the  oldest  in  New  York — your  name 
stands  beyond  suspicion,  and  if  I leave  this  money  in  your  hands,  I 
can  sleep  nightly  with  the  happy  assurance  that  whatever  happens  to 
me,  my  dearest  ones  are  safe. 

Bad.  You  may  pull  your  nightcap  over  your  ears  with  that  estab- 
lished conviction. 

Capt.  Now,  T know  your  hank  is  closed,  but  if  you  will  accept  this 
money  a special  deposit,  T will  write  to  you  how  I desire  it  to  be 
invested  hereafter. 

Blood.  [Pensive.]  You  have  a family  1 

Capt.  Don’t  talk  of  them — tears  of  joy  come  into  my  eyes  whenever 
I think  of  those  children — and  my  dear  wife,  the  patient,  devoted 
companion  of  the  old  sailor,  whose  loving  voice  murmurs  each  evening 
a prayer  for  those  who  are  on  the  sea;  and  my  children,  sir,  two 
lil tie  angels;  one  a fair  little  thing — we  call  her  Lucy — she  is  tna 
youngest; — all  red  and  white  like  a little  bundle  of  nowers;  and  my 
eldest — my  son  Paul — we  named  him  after  Paul  Jones — a sailor’* 
whim;  well,  sir.  when  the  ship  is  creaking  and  groaning  under 
feet,  when  the  squall  drives  the  hail  and  sleet  across  my  face,  anrrts 
the  thunder,  1 only  hear  three  voices — through  the  gloom  1 can  so» 
only  three  faces,  pressed  together  like  three  angels  waiting  for  me  i? 
heaven,  and  that  heaven  is  my  home.  But,  how  I do  talk,  sn — foi 
getting  that  these  things  can’t  interest  yau. 

Blood.  They  do,  more  than  you  imagine.  I,  too,  have  a child- 
only  . e — a motherless  child  ! 

Capt.  Aint  it  good  to  speak  of  the  little  beings  1 Don’t  it  fill  the 
heart  like  a draught  of  sweet  water  ( My  darling  torment*  here  la 


6 


THE  POOR  OF  NEW  "V  ORTC 


Lheir  fortune — T have  it  in  ray  hand — it  is  here — I have  snatch*  l h 
from  the  waves ; 1 have  won  it,  across  the  tempest;  I have  labored, 
wrestled,  and  s uiiered  for  it ; but  it  seemed  nothing,  for  it  was  fox 
them.  Take  it,  sir.  \TJe  hands  a pocket-book.]  Tn  this' pocket-book 
you  will  find  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  May  I take  your  receipt, 
and  at  once  depart  for  mv  vessel  1 

Bad.  [Aside.]  This  is  getting  positively  interesting. 

Blood.  Your  confidence  flatters  me,  sir.  You  desire  to  place  thia 
money  with  me  as  a special  deposit] 

Capt.  If  you  please.  Will  you  see  that  the  amount  is  correct] 
Blood.  [Counting.]  Mr,  Badger,  prepare  the  Receipt. 

Bad.  i Writing.]  “ New  York,  13th  of  December,  1837.  Received, 

on  spedal  deposit,  from ” [To  Captain.]  Your  name,  sir] 

Capt.  Captain  Fairweather,  of  the  ship  Paul  and  Lucy,  of  New 
York. 

Bad.  [ Writing.]  Captain  Fairweather,  of  the  ship 

( Blood.  One  hundred  thousand  dollars — quite  correct. 

/ Bad.  [ Handing  receipt  to  Bloodgood,  and  watching  him  closely  at 
he  taker  the  pen.]  Please  sign  the  receipt.,  [Aside.]  His  hand  doei 
not  tremble,  not  a muscle  moves.  What  a magnificent  robber  ! 

Blood.  | To  O AP;FTrN“J'~Hei'e  is  your  receipt 

Capt.  A thousand  thanks.  Now  I am  relieved  of  all  trouble. 

Bad.  [Aside  ] That’s  true. 

Capt.  I must  return  in  haste  to  the  Astor  House,  where  I dine  with 
my  owners  at  four — I fear  I am  late.  Good-day,  Mr.  Bloodgood. 

Blood.  Good-day,  Captain,  and  a prosperous  voyage  to  you.  [Exit 
Captain  Fairweather.  Bad,ger  opens  ledger.]  What  are  you  do- 
ing, Mr.  Badger] 

Bad,.  1 am  going  to  enter  that  special  deposit  in  the  ledger. 

Blood.  Mr.  Badger  1 
Bad  Mr.  Bloodgood  1 

Blood.  [ Brings  him  down.  | I have  been  deceived  in  you.  I confess 
I did  riot  know  vour  value. 

Bad.  [ Modestly,  j Patience  and  perseverance,  sir,  tells  in  the  long 
run. 

Blood.  Here  are  one  thousand  dollars — I present  them  to  you  for 
your  past  services. 

had.  [Takes  the  money , and  walks  over  to  the  ledger  on  the  desk, 
which  he  closes  significantly.]  And  for  the  present  service  ] 

Blood.  What  do  you  mean  ] 

Bad.  My  meaning  is  as  dear  as  Croton.  I thought  you  were  going 
fail — T see  1 was  wrong — you  are  going  to  abscond. 

Blood.  Mr.  Badger!  tills  language 

Bad.  This  deposit  is  special ; yon  dare  not  use  it  in  your  business ; 
your  creditor’s  cannot  touch  it — ergo,  you  mean  to  make  a raise  and 
there's  but  one  way — ahsconsion!  absquatulation. 

Blood.  [Sm'ling.]  It  is  possible  that  this  evening  I may  taVe  a 
little  walk  out  of  town. 

Bad.  In  a steamboat  ] 

Blood.  Meet  mo  at  Peck  Slip,  at  five  o'clock,  and  I will  hand  y 1 
ftcu^e  tho  sum  I gave  you. 


TOE  POOR  op  JRW  VORK. 


7 


Bad  [A  tide,]  In  all  three  thousand  dollars. 

Re-enter  Edwards. 

Edw.  Your  daughter,  sir  ; Miss  Alida  is  in  the  carriage  at  the  door 
v d is  r.r reaming  to  be  admitted. 

Blood.  Tell  the  nurse  to  pacify  her  for  a few  moments. 

Edw.  She  dare  nou,  sir ; Miss  Alida  has  torn  nurse’s  face  in  a fear- 
ful maimer  already.  [Exit. 

Bad.  Dear,  high-spirited  child ! If  she  is  so  gentle  now,  what  will 
•Li  be  when  she  is  twenty,  and  her  nails  are  fully  developed  'l 

Blood.  [Takes  hat. J l will  return  immediately.  [Exit. 

Bad.  I Following  Bloodgood  with  his  eyes.]  Oh,  nature,  wonderful 
mistress!  Keep  close  to  your  daughter,  Bloodjiood,  for  she  is  your 
master  ! Huih,  pillage,  roK  fifty  families  To  in abe  her  rich  with  their 
misery, .Lappv  in  their  tears.  I watched  him  as  he  received  the  for- 
tune of  ' hat  noble  old  sailor— not  a blink— his  heart  of  iron  never 
quailed,  but  in  this  heart  of  iron  there  is  a straw,  a weakness,,  by 
which  it  may  be  cracked,  and  that  weakness  is  his  own  child — chil- 
dren ! They  are  the  devil  in  disguise.  I have  not  got  any  except 
my  passions,  my  vices — a large'  family  of  spoilt  and  ungrateful  little 
devils,  who  threaten  their  loving  father  with  a prison. 

Edw.  [Outside.]  I tell  you,  sir,  he  is  not  in. 

Capt.  [ Outside.]  Let  me  pass  I say.  [He  enter sh'ery  much  agitated.] 
Where  is  he  l Where  is  he  'l 

Bad.  [Surprised.]  What  is  the  matter,  sir  1 

Capt . Mr.  Bloodgood — I must  see  him — speak  to  him  this  instant. 
I j you  not  hear  me*? 

* Bad.  But 

Capt.  He  has  not  gone. 

Bad.  Sir 

Capt.  Ah  ! he  is  here ! 

Re-enter  Bloodgood. 

Blood,  What  is  the  meaning  of  this. 

Capt,  Ah!  you — it  is  you — [Trying  to  restrain  his  emotion.]  Sir, 
have  changed  my  mind;  here  is  your  receipt ; have  the  goodness  to 
*uirn  me  the  deposit  I — I — left  with  you. 

Blood.  Sir ! 

Capt.  I have  another  investment  for  this  um,  and  I — beg  you  to  r»- 

tore  it  to  me. 

[Mood.  Restore  it ! you  have  a very  strange  way,  sir,  of  demanding 
what  is  due  to  you. 

Capt.  It  is  true  ; pardon  me  but  I have  told  you  it  is  all  T possess 
D is  the  fortune  of  my  wife,  of  my  children,  of  my  brave  Paul,  and 
my  dear  little  Lucy,  ft  is  their  future  happiness,  their  life  ! Listen, 
sir;  I will  he  frank  with  you.  Just  now,  on  returning  to  my  hotel, 
I found  the  owners  of  my  ship  waiting  dinner  for  me.  well,  they  were 
speaking  as  merchants  will  speak  of  each  other — your  name  was 
weetwned-~I  listened-— a«d  they  skid— it  wakes  we  tremble  even 


I 


THE  POOR  OF  VEW  YORK. 


row— they  said  there  were  rumours  abroad  to  day  that  your  hcaoi 
was  in  peril. 

Blood.  I attack  no  importance,  sir,  to  idle  talk. 

Capi.  But  T attach  importance  to  it,  sir.  How  can  I leave  tne  city, 
with  this  suspicion  on  my  mind  that  perhaps  I have  compromised  th« 
future  of  my  family. 

blood.  Sir  i 

Copt.  Take  back  your  receipt,  and  return  me  my  money. 

Blood.  You  know  sir,  that  it  is  after  banking  hours.  Return 
to  morrow. 

Capt..  No.  You  received  my  deposit  after  banking  hours. 

Biood  I am  not  a paying  teller,  to  count  out  money. 

Capt.  You  did  not  say  so,  when  you  counted  it  in. 

Enter  Edwards. 

Edw.  The  driver  says  you  will  be  late  for  the 

Blood.  [ Trying  to  stop  him.]  That  will  do.  [ Exit  Edwards. 

Capt.  What  did  he  say  1 [ Runs  to  the  window.]  A carriage  a< 
the  door — 

Bad.  [Aside.]  Things  are  getting  complicated  here. 

Capt , Yes — I see  it  all.  He  is  going  to  fly  with  the  fortunes  and 
savings  of  his  dupes  ! [Tearing  his  cravat.]  Ah  ! I shall  choke  ! [ Fu- 
riously to  Bloodgood.]  But  I am  here,  villian,  I am  here  in  time. 

Blood.  Sir. 

Capt.  To-morrow,  you  said — return  to-morrow — but  to-morrow  you 
will  be  gone.  [ Precipitates  himself  on  Bloodgood.]  My  money,  my 
money.  I will  have  it  this  instant!  Do  not  speak  a word,  it  is  useless, 
I will  not  listen  to  you.  My  money,  or  I will  kill  you  as  a coward 
should  be  killed,  Robber!  Thief! 

Bad.  [Aside.]  Hi ! hi ! This  is  Worth  fifty  cents — reserved  seats 
extra. 

Blood.  [Disengaging  himself .]  Enough  of  this  scandal.  You  shall 
have  your  money  back  again. 

Capt.  Give  it  me — ah! — [In  pain.]  My  head!  [To  Bloodgood.] 
Be  quick,  give  it  to  me,  and  let  me  go.  [Staggering  and  putting  his 
hands  to  face.]  My  God  ! what  is  this  strange  feeling  which  over- 
comes me. 

Bad.  He  is  falling,  what’s  the  matter  of  him  1 

[Captain  F.  falls  in  chair  c. 

Blcod.  His  face  is  purple  [Takes  pocket-book  and  commences  U> 
count  out  money. 

[Soft  music  to  end  of  act. 

Crvpi.  T am  suffocating;  some  air^  I cannot  see:  everythin?  to 
black  before  my  eyes.  Am  I dying  1 0,  no,  no!  it  cannot  be,  1 v.  ill 

not  die.  I must  see  them  again.  Some  water — quick!  Come  to  me— 
my  wife — my  children  ! Where  are  they  that  I cannot  fold  them  in  my 
arms  ! [lie  looks  strangely  and  fearfully  into  the  face  of  Bloodoood 
for  an  instant , and  then  breaks  into  a loud  sob  ] Oh,  rny  children— 
mv  poor,  poor,  litt  le  children  ! \ After  some  convulsive  efforts  to  speak 
kit  eyes  become  fixed. 


THE  l»OOn  or  NEW  VOHK. 


* 

Flopd.  [ Distrarted.]  Someone  rnn  tor  help.  Badger,  a docioi 
ni.ck 

Bad.  [Standing  over  Captain.]  AU  right,  sir,  I have  siudied 
medicine— that  is  how  T 1 a rued  most  of  my  loose  habits.  [Examine s 
the  Captain’s  pulse  and  eyes.]  It  is  useless,  sir.  He  is  dead. 

Blood.  [H  rrified.]  Dead ! [Bloodgood’s  attitude  is  out  of  extreme 
horror.  Tins  po.uUon  ar<id>mllv  i cuizes  as  ho  beaut  xjo  seethe  a drug.  m 
tapes  that  will  result  from,  the  Cai  I Can  it  ^possible  e! 

— Btrd~T\  I earirig~opn>  the  Captain’s  vest,.  The  receipt  falls  on  Vu 
ground.]  His  heart  has  ceased  to  beat — congestion  in  all  its  diag 
nos  tics.  • 

Blood.  Dead  ! 

Bad.  Apophxy — the  symptoms  well  developed — the  causes 
naiural,  over  excitement  and  sudden  emotion. 

Blood.  [Relaxing  into  an  attitude  of  cunning.]  Dead  ! 

Bad.  You  are  spared  the  agony,  of  counting  out  his  money. 

Blood.  Dead  ! » 

Bad.  [Sees  receipt  on  ground.]  Hal  here  is  the  leceipt ! Signal 
by  Bloodgood.  As  a general  rule  never  destroy  a receipt — there 
is  no  knowing  when  it  may  yet  prove  useful  [Picks  it  up,  an d 
puts  it  in  his  pocket. 

Tableau . 


*ND  OF  ACT  %. 


10 


THE  FOOK  OP  NEW  YORK. 


LA  fe&oM  of  twenty  jeer*  tH  aupuosed  to  Intervene  between  the  First  wad  Second  Acte 

ACT  II. 


f jj*  jjmiit  of  1857. 


SCENE  I. — The  Park , near  Tammany  Hail 
Enter  Livingstone. 

Lw.  Eight  o’ cloc*.  in  the  morning  ! For  tb«  last  hour  " have  hc«i 
hovering  round  Chatham  street — I wanted  to  sell  my  overcoat  to  some 
enterprising  Israelite,  hut  I could  not  master  the  courage  to  enter  one 
Of  those  dens.  Can  I realize  the  tact  l Three  months  ago,  1 stood 
there  the  fashionable  Mark  Livingstone,  owner  of  the  Water  witch 
jpcht,  one  of  the  original  stock-holders  in  the  Academy  of  Music,  and 
now,  burst  up,  sold  out,  and  reduced  to  breakfast  off  this  coat  [Peek 
*n  the  pocket.]  What  do  I feel  1 a gold  dollar — undiscovered  in  the 
Baglau  of  other  days!  [Withdraws  his  hand.]  No;  tis  a ffve-ceuw 
piece ! 

Enter  Puffy,  with  a hot-potato  arrangement. 

Puffy.  Past  eight  o’clock ! I am  late  this  morning. 

Iav.  1 wonder  what  that  fellow  has  in  his ' tin  volcano — it  smelk 
Well.  Ha!  what  are  those  funny  things  '1  Ah! 

Puffy.  Sweet  potatoes,  sir. 

Iriv.  Indeed!  [Aside.]  If  the  Union  Club  saw  me—  [Looks  round.] 
No  ; I am  incog — hunger  cries  aloud.  Here  goes. 

Puffy.  Why,  bless  me,  if  it  ain’t  Mr.  Livingstone! 

Lire.  The  devil ! He  knows  me — I dare  not  eat  a morsel. 

Puffy.  I’m  Puffy,  sir;  the  baker  that  was — ir  Broadwa  r — served 
you,  sir,  and  your  good  father  afore  you. 

Lire.  Oh,  Puffy — ah,  true.  [Aside. ] 1 wonder  if  1 owe  him  anything 

Puffy.  l)o wn  in  the  world  now,  sir — over-speculated  nke  the  rest 
on  ’em.  I elpanded  on  a new-fangled  oven,  that  was  to  bake  enough 
bread  in  six  hours  to  supply  the  whole  United  Stats*— got  done  brown 
in  it  myself — subsided  into  Bowery — expanded  again  on  woffles, 
caught  a second  time — obliged  to  contract  into  a twelve  foot  front  on 
Division  street.  Mrs.  P.  tends  the  iDdoor  trade — 1 do  a locomotive 
business  in  potatoes,  and  we  let  oui'  second  floor.  • My  sun  Dan  sleeps 
with  George  Washington  No.  4,  while  Mrs.  P.  and  I make  out  under 
the  counter  ; Mrs.  1\,  bein’  wide,  objects  some,  but  I says — says  I, 
“ My  dear,  everybody  must  contract  themselves  in  these  here  hard 
times.”  * 

Lvu.  So  you  are  poor  now,  are  you  1 [Takes  a potato,  playfully. 

Puffy  Yes,  sir;  I ain’t  ashamed  to  own  it — for  I hurt  nobody 
but  myself.  Take  a little  salt,  sir.  But,  Lord  bless  you,  sir,  poverty 
don't  come  amiss  to  me — I’ve  got  no  pride  to  support.  Now,  tiers’ 
ajy  lodgers — — 


THE  POOH  OP  NEW  YORK. 


11 


Lw.  Ah,  your  second  floor. 

Puffy.  A widow  lady  and  her  two  grown  children — poor  au  mi 
but  proud,  si;  — they  was  grand  folks  once  ; you  can  see  that  by  tbt 
way  they  try  to  hide  it.  Mrs.  Fairweatber  is  a 

Liv.  Fair  weather — the  widow  of  a sea  captain,  who  died  here  La 
New  York,  twenty  years  ago  t 

Puffy.  Do  you  know  my  lodgers  1 

1 Liv.  Three  months  ago,  they  lived  in  Brooklyn — Paul  had  a clerk* 
ihip  in  the  Navy  Yard. 

Puffy.  But  when  the  panic  set  in,  the  United  States  government 
Sontracted — it  paid  off  a number  of  employees,  and  Mr.  Paul  was 
discharged. 

Liv.  They  are  reduced  to  poverty  and  I did  not  know  it. — No,  how 
could  I.  [Aside.\  Since  my  ruin  I have  avoided  them.  [Aloud. J 
And  Lucy — 1 mean  Miss  Fainveather  1 

Puffy.  She  works  at  a milliner’s,  in  Broadway — bless  her  sweet 
face  and  kind  smile — me  and  my  wife,  we  could  bake  ourselves  intc 
bread  afore  she  and  they  should  come  to  want ; and  as  for  my  boy 
Dan — talk  of  going  through  fire  and  water  for  her — he  does  that  every 
night  for  nothing.  Why,  sir,  you  can’t  say  “ Lucy,”  but  a big  tear 
will  come  up  in  his  eye  as  big  as  a cartwheel,  and  then  he’ll  let  out 
■n  almighty  cuss,  that  sounds  like  a thousand  o’  brick. 

Enter  Paul  and  Mrs.  Fairweather,  dressed  in  black. 

Liv.  Oh  ! [In  confusion , hides  the  potato  in  his  pocket , and  hums 
an  air  as  he  walks  away.  Aside .J  I wonder  if  they  know  me. 

Mrs.  F.  Ah,  Mr.  Pufiy. 

Puffy.  What,  my  second  floor.  Mrs.  Fairweather — good  morning, 
M r.  Paul ; I hope  no  misfortune  has  happened — you  are  dressed  in 
mourning. 

Mrs.  F.  This  is  the  anniversary  of  my  poor  husband’s  death  ; this 
day,  twenty  years  ago,  he  was  taken  away  from  us — we  keep  it 
sacred  to  his  memory. 

Paul.  It  was  a fatal  day  for  us.  When  my  father  left  home  he  had 
100,000  dollars  on  his  person — when  he  was  found  lying  dead  on  the 
sidewalk  of  Liberty  street, he  was  robbed  of  all. 

Mrs.  F.  From  that  hour  misfortune  has  tracked  us — we  have  lost 
our  friends. 

Puffy.  Friends — that  reminds  me — why  where  is  Mr.  Living- 
* »tone — there’s  his  coat — 

Paul.  Livingstone! 

Puffy.  We  were  talking  of  you,  when  you  came  lip.  He  slipped 
sway. 

Re-enter  Livingstone. 

Liv.  I think  1 dropped  my  coat.  [Recognizing  *hem.  ] Pao-  —am  1 
mistake  n 1 

Mrs.  F.  No,  Mr.  Livingstone. 

Paul.  Good  morning,  sir. 

Liv.  Sir! — Mr.  Livingstone! — have  T offended  vou  ? 


n 


THE  POOU  op  fthW  YOkE. 


Paul.  "We  could  not  expect  you  to  descend  to  7isit  us  in  our  poo* 
lodging. 

Mrs  F.  We  cannot  afford  the  pleasure  of  your  society. 

Liv.  Let  me  assure  you  that  I was  ignorant  of  your  misfortunes-^ 
And  if  1 have  not  called — it  was  because — a — because — [Aside.i 

What  shall  I say.  [Aloud  J — I have  been  absent  from  the  city ; — 
may  I ask  how  is  your  sister 

Paul.  My  sister  Lucy  is  now  employed  in  a millinery  store  in 
Broadway — she  sees  you  pass  the  door  every  day. 

Liv.  [Aside.]  The  devil — I must  confess  my  ruin,  or  appear  a con- 
temptible scoundrel. 

Paul.  Livingstone — I cannot  conceal  my  feelings,  we  were  school- 
mates together — and  I must  speak  out — 

Liv.  [Aside.]  I know  what’s  corning. 

Paul.  I’m  a blunt  New  York  boy,  and  have  something  of  the  old 
bluff  sailor’s  blood  in  my  veins — so  pardon  me  if  I .tell  you  that  you 
have  behaved  badly  to  my  sister  Lucy. 

Liv.  For  many  months  I was  a daily  visitor  at  your  house — I loved 
your  sister. 

Paul.  You  asked  me  for  Lucy’s  hand — I gave  it,  because  I loved 
you  as  a brother — not  because  you  were  rich. 

Liv.  [Aside.]  To  retrieve  my  fortunes  so  that  I might  marry — I 
speculated  in  stocks  £nd  lost  all  I possessed.  To  enrich  Lucy  and  her 
family,  I involved  myself  in  utter  ruin. 

Paul.  The  next  day  I lost  my  clerkship — we  were  reduced  to 
poverty,  and  you  disappeared. 

Liv.  I can’t  stand  it — I will  confess  all — let  me  sacrifice  every 
feeling  but  Lucy’s  love  and  your  esteem — 

Mrs.  F.  Beware,  Mr.  Livingstone,  how  you  seek  to  renew  our 
acquaintance  ; recollect  my  daughter  earns  a pittance  behind  a coun- 
ter-—-I  take  in  work,  and  l’aul  now  seeks  for  the  poorest  means  of  earn- 
ing an  honest  crust  of  bread. 

Liv.  And  what  would  you  say  if  I were  no  better  off  than  y<  ur- 
selves — if  I too  were  poor — if  I — 

Pujfy.  You,  poor,  you  who  own  a square  mile  of  New  York? 

Enter  Bloodgocd. 

Liv.  Mr.  Bloodgood  ! 

Blood.  Ah,  Livingstone— why  do  you  not  call  to  see  us  ? You  know 
our  address — Madison  square — my  daughter  Alida  will  be  delighted. — 
By  the  way — I have  some  paper  of  yours  at  the  bank,  it  comes  due 
to-day — ten  thousand  dollars,  I think — you  bank  at  the  Chemical  ? 

Liv.  Yes,  I do — that  is  did, — bank  there. 

Blood.  Why  don’t  you  bank  with  me,  a rich  and  careless  fellow  like 
you — with  a large  account 

Liv.  Yes — I — [Aside.]  He  is  cutting  the  ground  from  under  my 
feet. 

Paid.  Mr.  Bloodgood — pardon  me,  sir,  but  I was  about  to  call  on 
you  to-day  to  solicit  employment. 

Blood.  I’m  full,  sir, — indeed  I think  of  reducing  salaries,  everybody 
is  doing  so. 


THE  POOR  <>F  NEW  YOKE. 


II 


7av.  But  you  are  making  thousands  a week  1 

Blood  That  is  no  reason  that  I should  not  take  ad-  intage  of  dim 
times — [Recognizing  Puffy.]  Ah,  Mr.  Puffy,  that  note  of  yours. 

• Puffy.  Oh,  Lord  ! [Aside. ] It  is  the  note  Mrs.  Fairwe-ither  gave  m« 
for  her  rent. 

Blood.  My  patience  is  worn  out. 

Puffy.  It’s  all  right  sir. 

Blood.  Take  care  it  is.  [ Exit. 

Puffy.  Jhere  goes  the  hardest  cuss  that  ever  went  to  law. 

Liv.  Paul— my  dear  friend — will  you  believe  me — my  feelings  ar« 
me  same  towards  you — nay  more  tender,  more  sincere  than  ever — but 
there  are  circumstan  ■ s I cannot  explain. 

Mrs.  F.  Mr.  Livingstone,  say  no  more — we  ask  no  explanation. 

Liv.  But  I ask  something — let  me  visit  you — let  me  return  to  the 
place  that  I once  held  in  your  hearts. 

Puffy.  219  Division  street — Puffy,  Baker.  Dinner  at  half  past  one 
— come  to  day,  sir — do,  sir. 

Paul.  We  cannot  refuse  you. 

Mrs.  F.  I will  go  to  Lucy’s  store  and  let  her  know.  Ah  ! Mr. 
Livingstone — she  has  never  confessed  that  she  loved  you — but  you 
will  find  her  cheek  paler  than  it  used  to  be.  [Exit. 

Paul.  And  now  to  hunt  for  work — to  go  from  office  to  office  plead- 
ing for  employment — to  be  met  always  with  the  same  answer — “ we 
are  full” — or  “ we  are  discharging  hands” — Livingstone,  I begin  to 
envy  the  common  laborer  who  has  no  fears,  no  care,  beyond  his  food 
and  shelter — I am  beginning  to  lose  my  pity  for  the  poor. 

Liv.  The  poor  ! — whom  do  you  call  the  poor  1 Do  you  know  them  ? 

&ou£pu  see  them  1 theaz_ are _ more  freemen tly.  found  under,  a black 

coat  than  under  a red  shirt.  The  poor  man  is  the  clerk  with  a family, 
forced  to  maintain  a decent  suit  of  clothes,  paid  for  out  of  the  hunger 
of  his  children.  The  poor  man  is  the  artist  who  is  obliged  to  pledge 
the  tools  of  his  trade  to  buy  medicines  for  his  sick  wife.  The  lawyer 
who,  craving  for  employment,  buttons  up  his  thin  paletot  to  hide 
hib  shirtless  breast.  X&ese  needy  wretches  are  poorer  than  tlie  poor, 
forjjhey  are  obliged  to  conceal  their  poverty  with  the  false  mask  of 
con  tenths niokihg"'“a  cigar  to  d'fsguTse  their  hunger — they  drag  from 
their  pockets  their  last  quarter,  to  cast  it  with  studied  carelessness,  to 
the  begger,  whose  mattress  at  home  is  lined  with  gold.  These  are 
th©  most  miserable  of  the  Poor  of  New  York. 

M small  crowd  has  assemPlFrauMcflPi v in  g sto ne  during  this  speech ; 

they  take  him  for  an  orator ; one  of  them  takes  down  what  he  says  ox 

tablets. 


Enter  Policeman. 


Puffy  and  crowd.  Bravo — Bravo — Hurrah — get  eu  the  bench? 
Police.  Come — I say — this  won’t  do. 

Liv.  What  have  I done. 

Police.  No  stumping  to  the  population  allowed  in  the  Park. 

In v.  Stumping  ! ! 

Ueporter.  Oblige  me  with  your  name,  sir,  for  the  Herald. 
irk)  Oh  ! [ Rushes  off , followed  by  Paul 


14  TIIE  POOR  OP  XE\\  YORK* 

8CENE  IT  — Exterior  of  Bloougoop’s  Bank,  Nassau  Strut 
Enter  Bloodgood. 

Blood.  [Looking  at  papers.]  Four  per  cent,  a month — ha!  if  thft 
panic  do  but  last,  I shall  double  my  fortune  ! Twenty  years  ago  thi* 
very  month — ay,  this  very  day — I stood  in  yonder  bank,  a ruined 
man.  Shall  I never  forget  that  night — when  I and  my  accomplice 
tarried  out  the  body  of  the  old  sailor  and  laid  it  there.  [Points  l.} 
I never  pass  the  spot  without  a shudder.  But  his  money — that 
founded  my  new  fortune. 

Enter  Alida. 

Alida,  my  dear  child,  what  brings  you  to  this  part  of  the  city  I 

Alida.  I want  two  thousand  dollars. 

Blood.  My  dearest  child,  I gave  you  five  hundred  last  week. 

Alida.  Pooh!  what’s  five  hundred!  You  made  ten  thousand  in 
Michigan  Southern  last  week — I heard  you  tell  Mr.  Jacob  Little  so. 

Blood.  But — 

Alida.  Come,  don’t  stand  fooling  about  it ; go  in  and  get  the 
money — I must  have  it. 

Blood.  AVell,  my  darling,  if  you  must.  Will  you  step  in  ! 

Alida.  Not  I.  I’m  not  going  into  your  dirty  bank.  I’ve  seen  all 
your  clerks — they’re  not  worth  looking  at. 

Blood.  I’ll  go  and  fetch  it.  [Exit. 

Alida.  This  is  positively  the  last  time  I will  submit  to  this  extor- 
tion. [ Opens  a letter  and  reads.]  “My  adored  Alida — 1 fly  to  your 
exquisite  feet ; I am  the  most  wretched  of  men.  Last  night,  at  Hall’s, 
I lost  two  thousand  dollars — it  must  be  paid  before  twelve  o’clock. 
Oh,  my  queen  ! my  angek!  invent  some  excuse  to  get  this  money  from 
your  father,  and  meet  me  at  Maillard’s  at  half-past  eleven.  When 
shall  we  meet  again  alone,  in  that  box  at  the  opera,  where  I can  press 
my  lips  to  your  superb  eyes,  and  twine  my  hands  in  your  magnificent 
hair  t Addio  carissima!  The  Duke  of  Calcavella.”  I wonder 
if  he  showed  that  to  any  «>f  his  friends  before  he  sent  it! 

Re-enter  Bloudgood,  folio  wed  by  Puffy. 

Blood.  I tell  you,  sir,  it  must  be  paid.  I have  given  you  pleD*y  ot 
time. 

Puffy.  You  gave  me  the  time  necessary  for  you  to  obtain  execution 
In  the  Marine  Court.  . 

Blood.  Alida.  my  love,  there  is  a draft  for  the  money.  [Owes  her 
notes.  Sfie  takes  them.]  And  now,  will  you  do  me  a favor!  Do  not 
be  seen  about  so  much,  in  public,  with  that  foreign  Duke. 

Alida.  I never  ask  you  for  a draft  but  you  always  give  me  a pill  to 
take  with  it. 

Blood.  I don’t  like  him. 

Alida.  Ido — bye-bye.  [Exit. 

Blood.  How  grand  she  looks ! That  girl  possesses  my  whole  heart* 

Puffy.  Reserve  a little  for  me,  sir.  This  here  note,  it  was  give  L« 
me  by  my  2d  floor  in  payment  of  rent.  It’s  as  good  as  gold,  sir— 
when  they  are  able/to  pay  it.  I’d  sooner  have  it — - 


THE  POOR  (F  -YEW  YORK. 


16 


Wood.  Mi  Puffy,  you  are  the  worst  kind  of  mar  you  are  a weak, 
h test  fool . you  are  always  failing — always  the  dupe  of  some  new 

bv  ndler 

*uffy.  Lc :d  love  you,  sir ! if  you  was  to  see  the  folks  you  call 
§w.  adlers — the  kindest,  purest  2d  floor  as  8ver  drew  God’s  breath.. 
I b Id  them  that  this  note  was  all  right — for  if  thcv  know’d  I was  put 
ab<  it,  along  of  it,  I believe  they’d  sell  the  clothes  off  their  backs  to 
paj  it. 

PI ood  [Aside.)  This  fellow  is  a fool.  But  I see,  if  I levy  execu- 
tion the  note  will  be  paid.  [Aloud.)  Very  good,  Mr.  Puffy,  i will  see 
abo  t it. 

P iffy.  You  will  ! I knew  it — there — when  folks  says  you're  a hard 
man  -I  says — no — no  more’n  a rich  man’s  got  to  be. 

B>  <od.  Very  good.  [Aside.)  I’ll  put  an  execution  on  1 is  house  at 
once  [Aloud.)  Good  morning,  Mr.  Puffy.  [Exit. 

' P ^T^fobT  liorTn n g , sff\  TSoT'Trir -floated  off  that  mud  bank. 
Lord  1 if  he  had  seized  my  goods  and  closed  me  up — I’d  never  a 
dare<  to  look  Mrs.  Fairweather  in  the  face  agin.  [Exit. 

SCE.’  E III. — The  interior  of  Puffy’s  house.  A poor  but  neat 

roi  n — window  at  back.  Mrs.  Fairweather  is  arranging 

dis  ner. 

Enter  Lucy,  with  a box. 

Lb  a).  My  dear  mother.  * 

J/i  ..  F.  My  darling  Lucy.  Ah,  your  eye  is  bright  again.  The 
thou;  ht  of  seeing  Mark  Livingstone  has  revived  your  smile. 

Lvuy.  V have  seen  him.  He  and  Paul  called  at  Madame  Victorine's* 

Mts.  F.  Is  your  work  over,  Lucy,  already! 

Lu-ry.  What  we  expected  has  arrived,  mother.  This  dress  is  the 
last  1 shall  receive  from  Madame  Victorina — she  is  discharging  her 
handG. 

Mrs.  F.  More  misfortunes — and  Paul  has  not  been  able  to  obtain 
employment.  [A  knock. 

Enter  Mrs.  Puffy. 

Mrs  P May  I come  in  ! it’s  only  Mrs.  Puffy.  I’ve  been  over  the 
oven  for  two  hours!  Knowing  you  had  company — I’ve  got  a pigeon 
pie — such  a pie  ! — um — oo — mutton  kidneys  in  it — and  hard  biled 
eggs — love  ye ! — then  I’ve  got  a chicken,  done  up  a way  of  my  own  1 
I’ll  gel  on  a clean  gown  and  serve  it  up  myself. 

Mis.  F.  But  my  dear  Mrs.  Puffy — really  we  did  not  meat)  to  incui 
any  expense 

Mrs.  P.  Expense ! why,  wasn’t  them  pigeons  goin’  to  waste— 
they  was  shot  by  Dan — and  we  can’t  abide  pigeons,  neither  Puffy  nor 
l.  Then  the  rooster  was  running  round — alwavs  tuisin’  hereafter 
early  in  the  mornin’ — a noosance,  it  was 

Enter  Dax. 

Van  Beg  pardon  ladies — I just  stepped  in- 


THE  POOR  OK  NEW  YORL. 


1*5 

T/ucy.  Go««d  cfriy,  Dan. 

Dun.  Day,  miss! — [Aside  to  Mrs.  Puffy. ] Oli  5 mother,  ain’t  sfc* 
pootty  this  mornin’. 

Mrs.  P.  [Smoothing  her  hair.]  What  have  you  got  there,  Dan’ell 

Pan.  When  1 was  paying  the  man  for  them  birds — [Mrs.  P.  kick i 
him] — Creation  ! mother — you’re  like  the  stocks — you  can  t move 
a’thout  crushin  somebody — well,  he'd  got  this  here  pair  o:  bootl 
o aider  his  arm — why.  ses  I,  if  ever  der  was  a foot  created  small 
enough  to  go  into  them,  thar,  it  is  Miss  Lucy’s — so  1 brought  them  fo“ 
fou  to  look  at. 

TAicy.  They  are  too  dear  for  me,  Dan,  pray  give  them  back. 

Pan.  Well,  ye  see — the  man  1ms  kinier  gone,  Miss — lie  said  he’d 
call  again — some  time  next  fall — 

Mrs.  F.  Dan — Mrs.  Puffy — you  are  good,  kind,  dear  souls— when 
the  friends  of  our  better  days  have  deserted  us — when  the  rich  will' 
scarcely  deign  to  remember  us — you,  without  any  design,  but  with  the 
goodness  of  Cod  in  your  hearts — without  any  hope  but  that  of  hiding 
your  kindness,  you  help  me.  Give  me  your  hands — 1 owe  you  too 
much  already — but  you  must  bestow  on  us  no  more  out  of  your 
poverty. 

Mrs.  P.  Lord,  Mrs  i just  as  if  me  and  Puffy  could  bestow  any- 
thing— ynd  what’s  Dan  fit  for  I 

Pan.  Fes — what’s  I’m  fit  fori 

Mrs.  F.  Well,  I will  accept  your  dinner  to-day  on  one  condition— 
that  you  will  all  dine  with  us. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh — my  ! Dine  with  up-town  folks ! 

Lucy.  Y rs  indeed,  Dan,  you  must. 

Pan.  Loid,  miss!  I aint  no  account  at  dinin’  with  folks — T take 
my  food  on  the  fust  pile  of  bricks,  anyhow. 

Mrs.  P.  I’m  accustomed  to  mine  standin’,  behind  the  counter. 

Pan.  We  never  set  down  to  it,  square  out — except  on  Sundays. 

Mrs.  P.  Then  it  don’t  seem  natural — we  never  eat,  each  of  us  it 
employed  a helping  of  the  other. 

Dan.  I’ll  fix  it!  father,  and  mother,  and  I,  will  all  wait  on  you. 

Lucy.  [Laughing.]  That’s  one  way  of  dining  together,  certainly. 

Enter  Paul  and  Livingstone. 

A iv.  Here  we  are  Why,  what  a comfortable  little  cage  this  is  ! 

Dan . Let  me  take  your  coat  and  hat,  sir. 

Liv.  Thank  you.  ^ Exit  Dan  and  Mrs.  Puffy.]  How  like  the  old 
times,  eh,  Lucy  I [Site  by  her. 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside  to  Pail.]  Well,  Paul,  have  you  obtained  employ- 
ment! 

Paid.  No,  mother;  but  Livingstone  is  rich — he  must  have  influence, 
& ml  he  will  assist  me. 

Mrs.  F.  Heaven  help  usl  I fear  that  the  worst  is  not  come. 

Paul  Nonsense,  mother-  cheer  up  ! Is  there  anything  you  hav« 
r.cncealed  from  me  I 

Mrs.  F.  No — nothing  you  need  know.  , A^rdr.]  Jf  b > knew  that  fo? 
flo-e  weeks  we  have  been  subM^vuc,  the  charity  oi  tb«sc  poof 
Veople  1 


THE  POOR  OF  EFW  YORK. 


r 


Mrs.  Puffy  with  a pie,  followed  by  Dan  with  a roast  chicken 
and  Puffy,  loaded  with  vlates  and  various  articles  of  dinn&t 
service. 

Mrs.  P.  Here  it  is. 

Lucy.  Stay — we  must  lay  more  covers  ; help  me,  Paul. 

I av.  Let  me  assist  you.  [They  join  another  table  to  the  fret. 
Mrs.  F.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Puffy  and  Dari  dine  with  us. 

Paul.  Bravo  ! 

Liv.  Hail  Columbia  ! [Dan  begins  dancing  about. 

Lucy  Why,  Dan — what’s  the  matter  1 
Ban.  On,  nothing,  miss. 

Lucy.  How  red  your  face  is  ! 

Dan.  Don’t  mind.  miss. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh  Lord ! I forgot  that  dish;  it  has  been  in  the  oven  f<A 
an  hour. 

Ban.  It  aint  at  all  hot.  [Paul  touches  it  and  'jumps  away.]  It’ 
got  to  burn  into  the  bone  afore  George  Washington  No.  4 gives  in. 

[Lays  down  the  plate — they  all  sit. 
Puffy.  Now,  this  is  agreeable — I have  not  felt  so  happy  since  1 
•tarted  my  forty  horse  power  oven. 

Liv.  This  pie  is  magnificent.  [Mrs.  Puffy  rises. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  sir,  you  make  me  feel  good. 

Dan  [Holding  the  table.]  Mother  can’t  express  her  feelings  with 
out  upsetting  the  table. 

Enter  two  Sheriff’s  Officers. 


e sud 


Paul.  What  persons  are  these  1 

Puffy.  What  do  you  want  I 

First  Sheriff's  Officer.  I am  the  Deputy  Sheriff — I come  at  the 
of  Gideon  Bloodgood,  against  Susan  Fainveather  and  Jonas  Puffy — 
amount  of  debt  and  costs,  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 

Paul.  My  mother ! 

Puffy,  lie  said  he  would  see  about  it — Oh,  Mrs.  Fairweathei 
hope  you  will  forgive  me — I could’nt  help  it. 

Deputy  Sheriff.  I do  not  want  to  distress  you;  Mr.  Livingustonc 
will  perhaps  pay  the  debt — or  give  me  his  check. 

Paul  Livingstone ! 

Liv.  [After  a pause.]  I cannot  help  you.  Yes,  I will  rather  a ppea? 
what  I am,  a ruined  man,  than  seem  a contemptible  one- -I  am  pair 
niiess,  broken — f ir  weeks  1 have  been  so — but  I nevei  fell  my  fov«r!$ 
till  now. 

Tableau. 


R*D  OF  ACT  H 


< 


THl?  POOR  OF  NKW  YORK. 


act  III. 

KCENE. — A Hoorn  iv,  the  house  of  Gidkoy  Bloodgood,  the  furniturn 
and  ornaments  are  in  a style  of  exaggerated  richness  white  satin 
and  gold.  Bloodgood  is  discovered  writing  at  a table  on  one  side 
Aiii  l>  a seated  reading  a newspaper  on  the  other. 

Blood.  What  are  you  reading  1 
Alida.  The  New  York  Herald. 

Blood.  You  seem  interested  in  itl 
Alida.  Very.  Shall  I read  aloud  1 

Blood.  Do,  [Goes  on  writing. 

Alida.  [Reads A “ Wall  street  is  a perch,  on  which  a row  of  human 
vultures  sit,  whetting  tneir  beaks,  ready  to  fight  over  the  carcass  of  a 
dying  enterprise,  ^nongst  these  birds  of  prey,  the  most  vulturous  is 
perhaps  Gid  Bloodgobd.  This  popular  financier  made  his  fortune  in 
The  lottery  business.  He  then  dabbled  a little  in  the  slave  trade,  as 
the  Paraquita  case  proved, — last  week  by  a speculation  in  flour  lie 
made  fifty  thousand  dollars,  this  operation  raised  the  price  of  bread 
lour  cents  a loaf,  and  now  there  are  a thousand  people  starving  in  the 
hovels  of  New  York — we  nominate  Gid  for  Congress,  expenses  to  be 
paid  by  the  admiring  crowd — send  round  the  hat.”  Father  ! [Ah'ses.] 
Are  you  not  rich  1 

Blood.  Why  do  you  ask  1 

Alida.  Because  people  say  that  riches  are  worshipped  in  New  York, 
that  wealth  alone  graduates  society.  This  is  false,  for  I am  young, 
handsome  and  your  heiress — -yet  I am  refused  admission  into  the  best 
families  here  whose  intimacy  I have  sought. 

' Wood . Refused  admission  ! Is  not  Fifth  Avenue  open  to  you  1 
Alida.  Fifth  Avenue  ! that  jest  is  stale.  Fifth  Avenue  is  a shop 
where  the  richest  fortunes  are  displayed  like  the  dry  goods  in  Stew- 
art’s windows,  and  like  them,  too,  are  changed  daily.  But  why  do  we 
not  visit  those  families  at  whose  names  all  men  and  all  journals  bow 
with  respect,  the  Livingstones,  the  Astors,  Van  Renssalaers.  Father, 
these  families  receive  men  less  rich  than  you — and  honor  many  girls 
»vho  don’t  dress  as  well  as  I do,  nor  keep  a carriage. 

Blood.  Is  not  the  Duke  of  Calcavella  at  my  feet  1 
Alida.  The  Duke  de  Calcavella  is  an  adventurer  to  whom  you  lend 
Honey,  who  escorts  me  to  my  box  at  the  opera  that  he  may  get  in 
free. 

Blood,.  You  minx,  you  know  you  love  him. 

Alida.  I am  not  speaking  of  love — but  of  marriage. 

Blood.  Marriage ! 

Alida.  Yes,  marriage  ! This  society  in  New  York  which  has  shut 
Ms  -doors  against  me,  it  is  from  amongst  these  families  that  I have 
.■isolved  to  choose  a husband. 

Blood.  [Rising. j Alida,  do  you  already  yearn  to  leave  me  1 For 
you  alone  I have  hoarded  my  \yealth— men  have  thought  me  miserly, 
when  Tlraye  ftad  bqt  one  treasure  in  tjip  wo'-hl  and  that  vyps  yew,  my 


THE  POOR  OP  NEW  YORE. 


*nly  child.  To  the  rest  of  my  fellow  creatures  I have  “beett  cold  arrt 
caiculaULig,  becameiju’you  alone  was  buried  all  the  love  my  heart 
Cv.uki  feel— my  fortune,  take  it.  gratify  your  caprices— take  it  all,  but 
leave  me  vour  affection. 

3775«rYoir talk  a s If  l were  still  a child. 

Blood.  L would  to  God  you  were ! Oh,  Alida,  if  you  knew,  ho* 
fearful  a thing  it  is  for  a man  like  me  to  lose  the  only  thing  in 
world  that  ties  him  to  it ! 

Alida.  Do  you  wish  me  to  marry  the  Duke  de  Calcavella  1 

Blood.  A roue , a gambler  ! Heaven  forbid  ! 

Alida.  Besides,  they  say  he  has  a wife  in  Italy. 

Blood.  I shall  forbid  him  the  house. 

Alida.  No,  you  won’t. 

Blood.  His  reputation  will  compromise  yours. 

Alida.  Judge  mv  nature  by  your  own — I may  blush  from  anger-  - 
a ever  fromshapie. 

Enter  Edwards 

Edw.  Mr.  Mark  Livingstone. 

A.n*a.  Livingstone  ! this  is  the  first  time  that  name  has  ever  been  ' 
innoanced  in  this  house. 

Blood.  He  comes  on  business.  Tell  Mr.  Livingstone  I cannot  see 
nim.  Beg  him  to  call  at  my  office  to-morrow. 

Alida.  Show  him  up. 

Blood.  Alida ! 

Alida.  [ Sharply  to  Edwards.]  Do  you  hear  me  'l 

Blood.  This  is  tyranny — I — I — [In  a rage  to  Edwards.]  Well, 
blockhead,  why  do  you  stand  staring  there  1 Don’t  you  hear  the 
order  ! Show  him  up.  [Exit Edwards. 

Alida.  Livingstone  ! 

Enter  Mark  Livingstone. 

Mark.  Mr.  Bloodgood — Miss  Bloodgood — [Bows.]  I am  most  for- 
tunate to  find  you  at  home. 

Alida.  1 trust  that  Mrs.  Livingstone  your  mother,  and  MissLiving- 
ituie  your  sister,  are  well  ! 

Mark.  [Coldly.]  f thank  you.  [ Gaily.]  Allow  me  to  assure  you 
that  you  were  the  belle  of  the  opera  last  night. 

Alida.  Yet  you  did  not  flatter  me  with  your  presence  in  our  box. 

Mark.  You  noticed  my  absence ! you  render  me  the  happiest  and 
pr  nudes.1  member  of  my  club. 

Alida.  By  the  way,  papa,  I thought  you  were  going  to  be  a mom 
oer  of  the  tinmn. 

Mark.  Ahem ! tjin  awkward  silence.]  He  was  black-balled  last 
week.  « 

Blood.  I think,  Mr.  Livingstone  you  have  some  business  with  me. 

Alida.  Am  I in  the  way  1 

Mark.  Not  at  all — the  fact  is,  Miss  Bloodgood — my  business  car 
be  explained  in  three  words 

Blood  Indeed  1 


THE  POOR  OF  NEW  TORE 


n 

Monk.  I am  rained. 

Alula.  Ruined  ! 

Mark.  Mv  father  lived  in  those  days  when  fancy  stocks  were  tuv 
known,  and  consequently  was  in  a position  to  leave  me  a handsounj 
fortune.  I spent  it — extravagantly — foolishly.  My  mother,  who  loves 
me  “ not  wisely  but  too  well,”  heard  that  my  name  was  pledged  f if 
a large  amount, — Mr.  Bloodgood  held  my  paper— she  sold  out  all  c v 
fortune  without  my  knowledge,  and  rescued  my  credit  from  dishonor 

Blood.  Allow  me  to  observe,  T think  she  acted  honorably,  but  fool 
Mdy.  X — 1— — * — — r~'~ 

Mark.  [Bows  to  Bloodgood.]  She  shared  my  lather’s  ideas  on  thes« 
Scatters  ; well,  [ turns  to  Alida,]  finding  I was  such  good  pay,  yom 
father  lent  me  a further  sum  of  money,  with  which  I speculated  in 
stocks  tojgcover  mv  another’s  loss — I bulled  the  market — lost — bor- 
rowed more — the  crisis  came — I lost  again — until  1 found  mysell 
ruined. 

Blood.  [Rising. ] Mr.  Livingstone,  I anticipate  the  object  of  your 
present  visit — you  desire  some  accommodation — I regret  that  it  is  out 
of  my  power  to  accord  it.  If  you  had  applied  to  me  a few  days  earlier 
I might  have  been  able  to — but — a — at  the  present  moment  it  is  quite 
impossible. 

Mark.  [Aside]  Impossible— the  u.^ial  expression — 1 am  familiar 
with  it.  [Rising — dloucTJ  I regret  exceedingly  that T TttdT  not  fall 
on  that  more  fortunate  moment  to  which  you  allude — a thousand 
pardons  for  my  untimely  demand 

Blood.  I hope  you  believe  that  l am  sincere  when  I say 

Mark.  Ob  ! 1 am  sure  of  it.  Accept  my  thanks — good  morning, 
Miss  Bloodgood. 

Blood.  [Ringing  the  bell.]  I trust  you  will  not  be  put  to  serious 
inconvenience. 

Mark.  Oh,  no.  [Aside.]  A revolver  will  relieve  me  of  every  diffi- 
culty. [Aloud.]  Good  day,  Mr.  Bloodgood.  [Exit. 

Blood.  1 like  his  impudence ! To  come  to  me  for  assistance ! Lei 
him  seek  it  of  his  aristocratic  friends — his  club  associates  who  black- 
balled me  last  week. 

Alida.  [ Who  has  been  seated  writing  at  table.]  Father,  come  her*. 

Blood.  What  is  it  ? 

Alida.  I am  writing  a letter  which  I wish  you  to  sign. 

Blood.  To  whom'? 

AliqLa.  To  Mr.  Livingstone. 

Blood.  To  Livingstone ! 

Alida.  Read  it. 

Blood.  [Reads. ] “ My  dear  sir,  give  yourself  no  further  anxiety 
shout  your  debt  to  me  ; I will  see  that  your  notes  are  paid — and  if  th« 
:an  often  thousand  dollars  will  serve  you,  I beg  to  hold  that  amounl 
at  your  service,  to  be  repaid  at  your  convenience.  Yours  truly/ 

[ Throwing  down  letter.]  I will  write  nothing  of  the  kind 

Alida.  You  are  mistaken — you  will  write  nrtb’ng  else. 

Blood  With  what  object! 

Anda.  I want  to  make  a purchase- 

Blooa  < d what  1 


."HE  FOOR  OF  XMV  YORR. 


Alia*  Of  a husband — a husband  who  is  a gentleman—  and  through 
«Fhom  1 can  gam  that,  position  you  cannot  with  all  your  wealth 
»liain — you  joc — the  tiling  is  cheap — there’s  the  pen. 

[aS'Ac  rings  a bell. 

Blood.  Is  jour  mind  so  set  on  this  ambition  1 

Alida.  If  it  cost  half  your  fortune.  [Bloodgqol  signs. 

Enter  Edwards. 

\ To  servant. \ Deliver  this  letter  immediately. 

Edw.  [Takes  the  letter  and  is  going  out , when  he  runs  against 
Badger,  ivho  is  coolly  entering .]  I have  told  you  already  that  my 
jjaster  is  not  to  be  seen. 

Bad.  So  you  did — but  you  see  how  mistaken  you  were.  There  lit 
is — I can  see  him  distinctly. 

Blood.  Badger!  [To  Edwards.]  You  may  go,  Edwards. 

Bad.  [To  Edwards.]  James — get  out. 

Blood.  What  can  he  want  here  I 

Bad.  Respected  Gideon,  excuse  my  not  calling  more  promptly,  but 
BUice  my  return  from  California,  tins  is  my  first  appearance  in  fashion 
able  society. 

Alida.  [Proudly.]  Who  is  this  fellow  7 

Bad.  Ah,  Alida,  how  is  the  little  tootles  7 You  forget  me. 

Alida.  How  can  I recollect  every. begging  imposter  who  importunes 
*ay  father. 

Bad.  Charming ! The  same  as  ever — changed  in  form — but  the 
heart,  my  dear  Gideon,  the  same  ever,  is  haj^l..and_dry  as  a biscuit. 

Alida.  Father,  give  this  wretch  a dollar  and  let  him  go.  " 

Bad.  Hullo!  Miss  Bloodgood,  when  I hand  round  the  hat  it  is  time 
enough  to  put  something  in  it.  Gideon,  ring  and  send  that  girl  of 
yours  to  her  nurse. 

Alida.  Is  this  fellow  mad  7 

Blood.  Hush  ! my  dear  ! 

Alida.  Speak  out  your  business — I am  familiar  with  all  my  fath- 
»r’s  affairs. 

Bad.  All  1 I doubt  it. 

Enter  Edwards,  followed  by  Lucy. 

Edw.  This  way,  Miss.  [To  Alida.]  Here  is  your  dress  naker. 

Alida.  [Eyeing  Lucy.]  Ha!  you  are  the  young  person  I met  tlii* 
•oruing  walking  with  Mr.  Livingstone  ? 

T.ucy.  Yes,  madam. 

Alida.  Hum  ! follow  me,  and  let  me  see  if  you  can  attend  on  ladW 

diligently  as  you  dp  on  gentlemen.  [Exeunt  Alida  and  Lucy. 

Blood.  [Looking  inquiringly  at  Badger  ] So  you  are  here  again. 
1 thought  you  were  dead. 

Bad.  No ; here  I am— like  a bad  shilling,  come  back  again.  I’v« 
been  all  over  the  world  since  we  parted  twenty  years  ago.  Your  3,000 
dollars  lasted  me  for  some  months  in  California.  Believe  me,  had  I 
know^i  that,  instead  of  absconding,  you  remained  in  New  York]  I 
woulo‘  Iw'-  > lastenecT  back  again  ten  years  ago,  to  share  your  revived 
fortune 


22 


THB  POOR  OF  X EW  fORK. 


Blood.  I am  at  a loss  to  understand  your  allusions,  sir, — nordt) 
Know  t iie  object  ol'  your  return  to  this  city.  We  have  plenty  of  such 
persons  as  you  in  New  York. 

Bad.  The  merchants*  of  San  Francisco  did  not  think  so,  fo*  they 
subscribed  to  send  me  home. 

Blood.  What  do'you  mean  1 

Bad.  I mean  the  Vigilance  Committee. 

Blood.  And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  here'? 

Bad.  Reduced  in  circumstances  and  without  character,  the  onl^ 
resource  left  to  me  is  to  start  a bank. 

Blood.  Well,  Mr  Badger ; I cannot  see  in  what  way  these  thing* 
can  affect  me ! 

Bad.  Can’t  you  'l  Ahem ! Do  you  ever  read  the  Sunday 

papers  1 

Blood.  Never. 

Bad.  I’ve  got  a romance  ready  for  one  of  them — allow  me  to  give 
you  a sketch  of  it. 

Blood.  Sir — 

Bad.  The  scene  opens  in  a bank  in  Nassau  street.  Twenty  years  ago 
a very  respectable  old  sea  captain,  one  winter’s  night,  makes  a special 
deposit  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars — nobody  present  but  the 
banker  and  one  clerk.  Th«  old  captain  takes  a receipt  and  goes  on 
his  way  rejoicing — but,  lo  ! and  behold  you  ! — in  half  an  hour  he  re- 
turns— having  ascertained  a fact  or  two,  he  demands  his  money  back, 
but  while  receiving  it  he  is  seized  by  a fit  of  apoplexy,  and  he  died 
on  the  spot.  End  of  Chapter  One. 

Blood.  Indeed,  Mr.  Badger,  your  romance  is  quite  original. 

Bad.  Ain’t  it!  never  heard  it  before,  did  you? — no!  Good! 
Chapter  Two.  f Pointedly .]  The  banker  and  his  clerk  carried  the  body 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  where  it  wras  discovered,  and  the  next  day  the 
Coroner’s  Jury  returned  a verdict  accordingly.  The  clerk  receiv- 
ing 3,000  dollars  hush  money  left  for  parts  unknown  The  ban- 
ker remained  in  New  York,  and  on  the  profits  of  this  plunder  es- 
tablished a colossal  fortune.  End  of  Part  No.  1 — to  be  continued  in 
our  next. 

Blood.  And  what  do  you  suppose  such  a romance  will  be  worth  1 

Bad.  I’ve  come  to  you  to  know. 

Blood.  1 am  no  judge  of  that. 

Bad.  Ain’t  you  ? — well — in  Part  No.  2,1  propose  to  relate  that  this 
history  is  true  in  every  particular,  and  1 shall  advertise  for  the  heiil 
»«f  the  dead  man. 

Blood.  Ha  ! you  know  his  name  then  1, 

Bad.  Yes,  but  l see  you  don’t.  I wrote  the  acknowledgment  whick 
you  signed — you  had  not  even  the  curiosity  then  to  read  the  name  of 
ycur  victim. 

Blood.  Really,  Mr.  Badger,  I am  at  a loss  to  understand  you.  Do 
you  mean  to  insinuate  that  this  romance  applies  in  any  way  to  me  ? 

Bad.  It  has  a distant  reference. 

Blood.  Youi  memory  is  luxurious — perhaps  it  can  furnish  some 
Better  evidence  of  this  wonderful  story  than  the  word  of  a convict, 
ejected  from  California  as  a precaution  of  public  safety. 


THE  POOR  OP  NKW  TOLK 


18 


Bad.  Fou  ara  right — my  word  is  not  worth  much. 

Blood.  I fear  not. 

Bad.  But  the  receipt,  signed  by  you,  is  wortli  a good  deal 
Bleed.  [Starting.]  Ha!  you  lie! 

Bad.  Let  us  proceed  with  my  romance.  When. the  banker  and  his 
elerk  searched  for  the  receipt,  they  could  not  find  it-  -a  circumstacos 
which  only  astonished  one  of  the  villains — because  the  clerk  ha#' 

R'cked  up  the  document  and  secured  it  in  his  pocket.  I don’t  mean  U. 
sinuate  that  this  applies  in  any  way  to  you. 

Blood.  Villain! 

Bad.  Moral:  As  a general  rule,  never  destroy  receipts— it  is  no 
knowing  when  they  may  not  prove  useful. 

Blood.  Were  it  so,  this  receipt  is  of  no  value  in  your  hands — iho 
heirs  of  the  dead  man  can  alone  establish  a claim. 

Bad.  [Rising.]  That’s  the  point — calculate  the  change  of  my  find 
tog  them,  and  let  me  know  what  it  is  worth. 

Blood.  What  do  you  demand  1 
Bad.  Five  thousand  dollars. 

Blood.  Five  thousand  devils ! 

Bad.  You  refuse  1 

Blood.  I defy  you — find  the  heir  if  you  can. 


Enter  Paul.  Badger  starts , then  falls  laughing  in  a chaxr. 

Blood.  Your  business,  sir,  with  me. 

Paul.  Oh,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Bloodgood — but  the  officers  have  seized 
the  furniture  of  our  landlord — of  your  tenant — for  a debt  owed  by  my 
mother.  I come  to  ask  your  mercy — utter  ruin  awaits  two  poor  fam- 
ilies. 

Bad.  Oh,  Supreme  } ustice  ! there  is  the  creditor,  and  there  is  the 
iabtor.  ^ — "*"*■ 

Paul.  My  mother — my  sister — I plead  for  them,  not  for  myself 

Blood.  I have  waited  long  enough. 

Bad.  [Rising.]  So  have  I.  [To  Paul.]  Have  you  no  friends  or 
latiors  to  help  you  1 

Paul.  None,  sir:  my  father  is  dead. 


Bad..  Not  quite ; I feel  interested  in  this  yenng  gentleman — doi 
you  1 

Blood.  Not  at  all ; therefore  my  servant  will  show  you  both  out- 
lie you  may  talk  this  matter  over  elsewhere. 

Bad  [To  Paul.)  Your  name  is  familiar  to  me — was  your  father  ii 

vrade  1 

Paid.  He  was  a sea  captain. 

Bad.  Ah ! he  died  nobly  in  sotpo  4<>nn,  l suppose— -the  last  to  i*av« 

bis  ship  l 


) 


Enter  Edwards. 


Edw.  Mr.  Paul  Fairweather 


Blood.  Enough  of  this. 


[Bloodgood  returns  to  his  table 
' Rings  the  bell. 


m 


TIIE  POOH  OF  NEW  YORK. 


Paid.  N sir,  he  died  miserably ! ten  years  ago,  his  body  mu 
found  on  the  sidewalk  in  Liberty  street,  where  he  fell  dead  by  apo 
plexy. 

Blond;.  [Rising.]  Ah! 

Ente ~ Edwards. 

Sad  James,  show  us  out — we’ll  talk  over  this  matter  elsewhere. 

Blood.  No — you — you  can  remaia  Leave  us,  Edwards. 

Bad.  Ah,  I told  you  that  the  young  man  was  quite  interesting, 
•Alphonse,  get  out.  [Exit  Edwards. 

Blood.  IVIydear  Mr.  Badger,  I think  we  have  a little  business  Ui 
settle  together! 

Bad.  Yes,  my  dear  Gideon.  [Aside  to  him.]  Stocks  have  gone  up  - 
1 want  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  that  receipt. 

Blood.  Fifty  thousand ! 

Bad.  [Aside. ] You  see  the  effect  of  good  news  on  the  market--' 
quite  astounding  ; ain’t  it  1 

Blood  If  you  will  step  down  to  the  dining-room,  you  will  find  lunch 
prepared — refresh  yourself,  while  I see  what  can  be  done  for  thin 
young  man. 

Bad.  [Aside.]  What  are  you  up  tol  You  want  to  fix  him — 
to  try  some  game  to  euchre  me.  Go  it ! I’ve  got  the  receipt ; you’re 
on  the  hook — take  out  all  the  line  you  want,  f Calls. J Ho  ! without 
there ! 

Enter  Edwards. 

Maximilian,  vamos ! Show  me  to  the  banquetting-hall. 

[Exit,  with  Edwards. 

Blood.  Your  situation  interests  me  ; but  surely,  at  your  age — yot 
can  find  employment.  j 

Paul.  Alas,  sir,  in  these  times,  it  is  impossible.  I would  work 
yes,  at  ar.y  kind  of  labor — submit  to  anything,  if  I could  save  mj 
mother  and  my  sister  from  want. 

Blood.  Control  your  feelings  : perhaps  I can  aid  you. 

Paul.  Oh,  sir,  I little  expected  to  find  in  you  a benefactor. 

Blood.  My  Correspondents  at  Rio  Janeiro  require  a book-keeper- 
are  you  prepared  to  accept  this  situation'?  but  there  is  a condition 
attached  to  this  employment  that  may  not  suit  you— you  must  stai 
by  the  vessel  which  sails  to-morrow. 

Paul.  To-morrow ! 

Blood.  I will  hand  you  a thousand  dollars  in  advance  of  salary.  to 
provide  for  your  mother  and  sister;  they  had  better  leave  this  citj 
intilfhey  can  follow  you.  You  hesitate. 

Paul.  Oh,  sir~  ’tis  my  gratitude  that  renders  me  silent. 

Blood  You  accept  1 the  terms  are  two  thousand  dollars  a year. 

Paul.  [Seizing  his  hand.]  Mr.  Bloodgood,  the  prayers  of  a famif 
srhom  you  have  made  happy,  will  prosper  your  life.  God  bless  you 
sir  ! I speak  not  for  myself,  but  for  those  still  more  dear  to  me. 

Blood.  Call  again  in  an  hour,  when  your  papers  of  introduction  and 
the  money  shall  be  ready. 

Pond.  Farewell,  sir.  I cap  scarcely  believe  my  guod  fortune  [Exii 


THE  FOOR  OF  NEW  YORK. 


Blood.  Sc,  now  to  secure  Badger.  [Sitting down  and  writing .]  He 
must,  at  any  risk,  be  prevented  from  communicating  with  the  mother 
and  da ugTiteTlilitil TEe v”can  be  sent  into  some  obscure  retreat.  I 
doubt  "that  he  is  in  possession  of  this  receipt,  [ r ings  a bell,  J but  I 
will  take  an  assurance  about  that.  [Rings. 

Enter  Edwards. 

Ta  ke  this  letter  instantly  to  the  office  of  the  Superintendent  of  Polio* 
{Exit  Edwards.]  Ha ! Badger,  when  you  find  the  heirs  of  the 
estate-  gone,  jou  will  perhaps  come  down  in  your  terms.  You 
did  not  remain  long  enough  in  California  to  measure  wits  with  Gideon 
Bloodgood.  [Exit. 

Enter  Luct. 

I/ucy.  I will  do  my  best,  miss,  to  please  you.  On,  et  me  hasten 
from  this  house ! 

Enter  Mark  Livingstone. 

Mark.  Lucy ! 

Lucy.  Mark ! 

Mark.  What  brings  you  here  1 ^ 

Lucy.  What  brings  the  poor  into  the  saloons  cf  the  rich? 

Enter  Alida,  unseen  by  the  others. 

Alid,a.  [Aside.]  Mr.  Livingstone  here,  and  with  this  girl! 

Mark.  My  dear  Lucy  1 have  news,  bright  news,  that  will  light  up 
a smile  in  your  eyes — I am  once  more  rich.  But  before  I relate  my 
good  fortune,  let  me  hear  from  you  the  consent  to  share  it. 

Lucy.  What  do  you  mean  1 

Mark.  I mean,  deaiest  one,  that  I love  you — 1 love  you  with  all  my 
reckless,  foolish,  worthless  heart. 

Alida.  [Advancing.]  Mr.  Livingstone,  my  father  is  waiting  for  you 
in  his  study. 

Mark.  A thousand  pardons,  Miss  Bloodgood  ; I was  not  aware — 
excuse  me.  [Aside.]  I wonder  if  she  overheard  me.  [To  Lucy.]  I will 
see  you  again  this  evening.  [ Exit. 

Alida.  [To  Lucy,  who  is  going.]  Stay;  one  word  with  you.  Mr. 
Livmgtone  loves  youl  do  not  deny  it,  I have  overheard  you. 

Lucy.  Well,  Miss  Bloodgood,  I have  no  account  to  render  you  ii; 
tl  is  matter. 

-Ahda.  I beg  your  pardon— he  is  to  be  my  husband. 

Lucy.  Your  husband  1 

Ahda.  Be  quiet  and  listen.  Mr.  Livingstone  is  ruined — my  father 
„as  come  to  his  aid  ; but  one  word  from  me,  and  the  hand,  extended 
to  save  him  from  destruction,  will  be  withdrawn. 

Lucy.  But  you  will  not  speak  that  word  1 

Alida.  That  depends 

Lucy.  On  what  1 his  acceptance  of  your  hand  1 ho  does  not  love 
you. 

Alida  That  i& not  the  question. 

Lucy.  You  Lave  overheard  that  he  loves  me 

Alida.  That  is  no  concern  of  mine. 


THE  POOR  OP  NEW  YORK. 


M 

Luey.  And  you  will  coldly  buy  this  man  lor  a husband,  knowing 
that  you  condemn  him  to  eternal  misery  ! 

Alicia.  Ton  are  caifdid,  but  not  complimentary.  Let  us  hope  that 
m time  he  will  forget  you,  and  learn  to  endure  me. 

Lucy.  (Jh,  you'dO'not  love  him.  I see,  it  is  his  name  you  require 
to  cover  the  shame  which  stains  your  father’s,  and  which  all  his  w-odib 
cannot  conceal.  Thank  Heaven ! his  love  for  mo  a ill  preserve  him 
llmm  such  a cowardly  scheme. 

Alida.  I will  make  him  rich.  What  would  vo«  wj*ike  him! 

l/ucy . I would  make  him  happy. 

Alida.  Will  you  give  him  up  ! 

Lucy.  Never  ! 

Alida.  Be  it  so. 

Re-enter  Marr. 

Mark.  Lucy,  dear  Lucy,  do  you  see  that  lad:  -she  is  my 

guardian  angel.  To  her  I owe  my  good  fortune — Mr.  B\  'cclgood  has 
told  me  all,  and  see,  this  letter  is  in  her  own  handwriting-  now,  let 
me  confess,  Miss  Bloodgood,  that  had  I not  been  thus  rese-*ed  from 
ruin,*!  had  no  other  resource  but  a Colt’s  revolver. 

Lucy.  Mark  ! 

Mark.  Yes,  Lucy — I had  resolved  I could  not  endure  th 
and  despair  which  beset  me  on  all  sides.  But  let  us  not  talk  r-v  mob 
madness — let  us  only  remember  that  I owe  her  my  life. 

Alida.  [Aside.  J And  I intend  to  claim  the  debt. 

Mark.  More  than  my  life — I owe  to  her  all  that  happiness  * >v 
ypu  will  bestow  upon  me. 

Lucy.  Me  ! me  ! — Mark ! — No,  it  is  impossible. 

Mark.  Impossible ! 

Lucy.  I cannot  be  your  wife. 

Mark.  WTTaifmean  you’TTucyl 

Lucy.  [ With  a supreme  effort.]  I — I do  not  love  you. 

Mark.  You  jest,  Lucy — yet,  no — there  are  tears  in  your  eyes. 

Lucy.  [Looking  away.]  Did  I ever  tell  you  that  I loved  you! 

Mark.  No,  it  is  true — but  your  manner,  your  looks,  I thought — *- 

Lucy.  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you! 

Mark.  I love  you  too  sincerely  for  that,  and  believe  me  I will  nevei 
intrude  again  on  your  family,  where  my  presence  now  can  only  pro- 
duce pain  and  restraint : may  I hope,  however,  that  you  will  retain 
enough  kindness  towards  me,  as  to  persuade  your  mother  to  accept 
my  friendship  1 It  will  soothe  the  anguish  you  have  innocently  in- 
flicted, if  your  family  will  permit  me  to  assist  them.  Have  you  th« 
generosity  to  make  this  atonement!  I know  it  will  pain  you  all— 
but  vou  owe  it  to  me.  [Lucy  falls,  weeping,  in  a chanr  ] Pardon  me, 
Miss  Bloodgood.  Farewell,  Lucy.  [To  Alida.]  I take  my  leave. 

[ Exit. 

Alida.  He  has  gone — you  may  dry  your  eyes. 

Lucy.  Oh ! 1 know7  what  starvation  is — I have  met  want  face  to 
face,  and  1 have  saved  him  from  that  terrible  extremity. 

AH4a.  Iff  offered  you  rqoqey;  I slnqld  pefer  that  my  husband 


THE  POOR  OP  NEW  YORK. 


27 

■hould  not  have  pecuniary  relations  with  yon — at  least,  not  at  pre* 
•nt — so,  aS  you  arc  in  want — here  is  some  assistance. 

[Offers  her  purse  to  Lucy. 
Lucy  [Rising.]  You  insult  me,  Miss  Bloodgood. 

Alida . How  can  an  offer  of  money  insult  anybody? 

Lucy.  You^hougTTTT  soTd"  my  heart — no— I gave  it.  Keep  your 
gold,  it  would  soil  my  poverty  ; you  have  made  two  fellow-being* 
unhappy  for  life — God  forgive  you ! [Exit 

Re-enter  Bloodgood. 

Blood.  What  is  the  matter,  Alida  ? 

Re-enter  Badger. 

Bad.  Four  cook  is  perfect,  your  wine  choice.  [He  pockets  the  nap* 
kin.]  Well,  now  suppose  we  do  a little  business. 

Blood.  [Rings  bell.]  It  is  time  we  began  to  understand  each 
Dther. 

Enter  Edwards. 

Has  that  letter  been  delivered  ? 

[Edwards  bows,  and  at  a sign  from  Bloodgood,  exit. 
Bad.  Do  you  wish  to  enter  into  particulars  in  the  presence  of  this 
charming  creature  ? 

Blood.  Her  presence  will  not  affect  our  business. 

Re-enter  Edwards,  and  two  Police  Officers. 

Bad.  Just  as  you  please.  What  proposition  have  you  to  make  ? 
Blood.  I propose  to  give  you  into  custody  for  an  attempt  to  extort 
money  by  threats  and  intimidation.  , 

1 st.  Pol.  You  are  our  prisoner. 

Bad.  Arrested  ! 

Blood.  Let  him  be  searched ; on  his  person  will  be  found  a receipt 
signed  by  me,  which  he  purloined  from  my  desk  yonder. 

Bad.  Well  played,  my  dear  Gideon,  but,  knowing  the  character  of 
the  society  into  which  I was  venturing,  I left  the  dear  document  safe 
at  home.  Good  morning,  Gid— Miss  Bloodgood,  yov»rs.  General— 
Colonel—' take  care  of  me.  [£oes  up  Voucbmbu 


WB  op  *24. 


THE  fOOR  OF  KEW  Yi.  RK. 


m 


ACT  TV. 

SCENF  I. — Union  Square — Night.  The  snow  falls. 

*a pft  discovered,  r.  a.,  with  a pan  of  roasting  chestnuts.  PikBli 
crouches  in  a corner  of  the  street. 

Puffy:  Lord  ! how  cold  it  is.  I can’t  sell  my  chestnuts.  I thought 
9 I posted  myself  just  here,  so  as  to  catch  the?  grand  folks  as  they  gc 
& the  opera,  they  might  fancy  to  take  in  a pocket-full,  to  eat  during 
Bde  performance. 

tornterD a.r , with  two  trunks  on  his  shoulders,  followed  by  a Gentleman. 

Dan.  There  is  the  hotel.  I’ll  wait  here  while  you  see  if  you  can 
get  a room  [Exit  Gentleman,  into  hotel. 

Puffy.  Dan,  my  boy,  what  cheer  7 

Dan.  This  is  the  fust  job  I’ve  had  to-day. 

Puffy.  I’ve  not  taken  a cent. 

Dan.  Have  you  been  home  to  dinner  1 

Puffy.  No ; I took  a chestnut.  There  wasn’t  more  than  enough 
for  the  old  woman  and  you,  so  I dined  out. 

Dan.  I wasn’t  hungry  much,  so  I boried  a bit  o’  ’bacca. 

Puffy.  Then  the  old  woman  had  all  the  dinner,  that’s  some  comfort — 
one  of  us  had  a good  meal  to-day. 

Dan.  I don’t  know,  father — she’s  ji^st  ugly  enough  to  go  and  put 
it  by  for  our  supper. 

Enter  Mrs.  Puffy,  with  a tin  can. 

Puffy.  Her*  she  is.  • 

Mrs.  P.  Ain’t  you  a nice  pair  I For  five  mortal  hours  I’ve  been 
carry  in’  this  dinner  up  and  down  Broadway. 

Dan.  I told  you  so. 

Mrs.  P.  You  thought  to  give  old  mother  the  slip,  you  undootiful 
villi n — but  I’ve  found  ye  both.  Come,  here’s  your  suppers — I’ve 
kept  it  warm  under  my  cloak. 

Puffy.  Lay  the  table  on  the  gentleman’s  trunk. 

Dan.  [Looking  into  the  tin  can.]  A splendid  lump  of  bread,  and  a 
&hunkofbeef! 

Puffy  Small  feed  for  three  human  beings. 

Dan.  Here  goes. 

Puffy.  Stay,  Dan.  [Placing  his  hands  over  the  bread.]  God  blest 
as,  and  pity  the  Poor  of  New  York.  Now,  I’ll  share  the  food  in  three. 

Dan  {Pointing  to  Paul.]  Father,  that  cuss  in  the  corner  there 
looks  kinder  bad — suppose  you  have  the  food  in  four. 

Mrs.  P.  I don’t  want  none.  Give  him  mine — I ain’t  at  all  cold. 

Dan.  Mother,  there’s  a tear  on  the  end  of  your  nose — let  me  break 
it  off'. 

Mrs.  P.  Get  out. 

Dan.  [Takes  a piece  of  bread,  and  goes  to  Paui.J  Hello,  stranger  J 
He’s  asleep. 


THE  PO<>T?  of  X: :w  TORE, 


4 

Mrs  P.  Then  don’t,  wake  him.  Leave  the  bread  in  his  [Da* 
plan. j the  bread , softly , beside  Paul,  and  rejoins  the  party — they  cat 

Enter  a Gentleman,  followed  by  Badger. 

Bad.  [ Very  ragged , with  some  opera  books  m one  hand , at  d boxet 
cf  matches  in  the  other.)  Book  of  the  opera,  sir1?  take  a book,  sir — 
they  will  charge  you  double  inside.  Well,  buy  a box  of  lucifers — * 
hundred  for  three  cents.  [ Dodging  m front  of  him , to  prevent  hi» 
passing. j Genuine  Poliak’s — try  one.  [ Exit  Gentleman — Badgei 
changes  his  tone,  and  calls  after  him. J If  you' re  short  of  cash,  T’l 
lend  you  a shilling.  He  wants  all  he  has  got  to  pay  his  omnibus 
Jerusha  1 ain’t  it  cold!  Tum-iddy-tuni-iddy-tuni.  [Performs  a shot 
dance , while  he  hums  a banjo  melody.)  I could  play  the  banjo  on  1115 
stomach,  while  all  1113'  shiveriug  anatomy  would  supply  the  bones. 

Enter  Mrs.  Fair  weather. 

Mrs.  F.  I cannot  return  to  our  miserable  home  without  food  for  my 
children.  Each  morning,  we  separate  in  search  of  work,  in  search  oi 
food,  only  to  meet  again  at  night — their  poor  faces  thin  with  hunger. 
[She  clasps  her  hands  m anguish .]  Ah  ! what’s  here  1 yes,  this  re- 
mains— it  is  gold! 

Bad.  [Overhearing  her  last  word.)  Gold!  Book  of  the  opera, 
ma’am  1 

Mrs.  F.  Tell  me,  friend,  where  can  I buy  a loaf  of  bread  at  this 
hour  1 

Bad.  There’s  a saloon  open  in  the  4th  avenue.  [Aside.)  Gold — she 
said  golct 

Mrs.  F.  Will  they  accept  this  pledge  for  some  food  1 

[Shows  a ring  to  Badger. 

Bad.  [Eagerly.)  Let  me  see  it.  [Looks  round. 

Mrs.  F.  It  is  my  wedding  ring. 

[Badger  examines  it  by  the  light  of  the  Druggist's  window 

Bad.  [Aside. J I can  easily  make  off  with  it. 

[Hubs  his  hose  with  the  ring  while  he  considers 

Mrs.  F.  My  children  are  starving — I must  part  with  it  to  buy  them 
bread. 

Bad.  [Whistles — hesitates — and  returns  the  ring.)  Go* along,  go, 
bjuy  your  children  food,  start,  and  don’t  show  that  ring  to  anybody 
else.  You  deserve  to  lose  it  for  showing  it  to  such  a blackguard  as  1 
am.  ® [Exit  Mrs.  Fatrweathkr. 

Enter  Blood  good. 

Biooct,.  What’s  the  time.  The  opera  must  be  nearly  over 

[Look's  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  the  Druggists  window. 

Bad.  Book  of  the  opera,  sir — only  authorized  edition.  [Recogniz- 
ing him.)  Bloodgood  ! 

Blood.  Badger ! 

[ They  advance.  Bloodgood  puts  his  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

Bad.  Ah,  my  deal  Gideon — [Suddenly.)  Take  your  hand  out  oi 
your  breast — come!  nore  of  that — I’ve  a knife  up  my  sleeve  thal 


THE  POC  R OF  NEW  YORK 


urould  Tip  too  up  like  a dried  codfish  before  you  *nmd  cock  tl»*S 
revolver  y >u  have  there  so  handy. 

Blood.  ' Withdrawing  his  hand. \ You  are  mistaken. 

Bad  Oh,  no!  I am  not.  I have  not  been  ten  years  in  California 
for  nothing — you  were  just  thinking  that  you  could  blow  out  my 
brains,  and  swear  that  I was  trying  to  garrote  you. 

Blood.  What  do  you  want  1 

Bad.  1 want  your  life — but  legally.  A week  ago,  I came  out  of 
prison — you  had  removed  the  Fairweather  family — I could  not  find  a • 
trace  of  them  but  l found  the  receipt  where  I had  concealed  it.  To-  •]. 
morn  w L shall  place  it  in  thb  hands  of  the  district  Attorney  with  my 
confession  of  our  murder  of  the  Sea  Captain. 

Blood.  Murder — 

Bad  Only  think  what  a fine  wood  cut  for  the  Police  Gazette  wa 
sbsll  make,  carrying  out  the  dead  body  between  us. 

Blood.  Demon  ! 

Bad.  There  will  be  a correct  plan  of  your  back  office  in  the  Herald— 
headed — the  Bloodgood  Tragedy.  j 

Blood.  Come  to  my  house  to-morrow,  and  bring  that  document  with 
you. 

Bad.  No,  sir — ee ! once  caught  twice  shy.  You  owe  me  a call.  ; 
Come  to  my  house,  to-night — and  alone. 

Blood.  Where  do  you  live  1 

Bad.  Nineteen  and  a half  Cross  street,  Five  Points— fifth  flom 
Pack — my  name  is  on  the  door  in  chalk. 

Blood.  In  an  hour  I will  be  there. 

Bad.  Ln  an  hour.  Don’t  forget  to  present  my  compliments  to  vour 
charming  daughter — sweet  creature!  the  image  of  her  father — how  1 
should  like  to  write  something  in  her  album.  • [ Exit  JBLOonuoor. . 

Enter  two  Gentlemen  from  Hotel — they  talk 

I Cries.]  Here’s  lucifers — three  cents  a hundred. 

[Gentlemen  shake  hands  and  separate. 
[Following  one  off  J Here’s  this  miscellaneous  stock  of  lumber,  just  \ 
imported  from  Germany,  to  be  sold  out— an  alarming  sacrifice,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  present  state  of  the  money  market. 

[ Eatf  importuning  the  gentleman , who  tries  to  escape. 
Puffy.  Come,  mother,  we  must  get  home — 

Mrs.  P.  Dan.,  nave  you  seen  nothing  of  poor  Mrs  Fairweather  and 
ber  children  ! 

Dan.  No,  mother — 1 can’t  find  out  where  they  have  gone  -0--1 
^uess  they've  quit  New  York. 

Mrs.  P.  God  help  them — wherever  they  are  ! 

Puffy.  Come  mother. 

[Music — Puffy  and  Mrs.  P.  go  out — Dan  goes  up  and  speaks  with 
gentleman. 

Enter  Lucy. 

Lucy.  This  is  the  place.  The  sisters  of  charily  in  Houston  etreef 
told  me  that  I might  find  work  at  this  address.  [ Reads 
street.  Oh,  Heaven  ! be  merciful  to  me,  this  is  iu.y  last  hope.  {Exit 


THE  POOR  OF  NEW  YORK. 


£1 

Paul  rises  and  comes  forward. 

F *ui,  Aly  limbs  are  powerless.  How  long  have  I slept  there  ?-— * 
another  long  day  has  passed— I have  crept  round  the  hotels — the 
wharves— I have  begged  for  work — but  they  laughed  at  my  poor  thin 
rorm—  the  remnant  of  better  days  hung  in  tatters  about  me — and  I 
was  thrust  from  the  door,  by  stronger  wretches  than  L To  day  I 
applied  to  get  employment  as  a waiter  in  a hotel — but  no.  I looked  toe 
miserable.  Oh,  my  mother  ! my  poor  mother!  my  dear  sister  ! wei» 
it  not  for  you,  I would  lie  down  here  and  die  where  I was  born,  in  the 
streets  of  New  York. 

Dan.  All  right,  sir — to  the  Brevoort  House.  Here,  you  lazy  cuss, 
shoulder  this  trunk,  and  earn  a quarter — 

Enter  a Porter. 


Paul.  Yes — oh,  gladly  ! — 

Porter.  It’s  myself  will  do  that  same.  [Paul  and  the  Porter  seize 
the  trunk.]  Lave  yer  hoult— you  dandy  chap  wid  the  black  coat. 

Paul.  He  called  to  me. 

Porter.  Is  it  the  likes  of  you— that  ud  be  takin’  the  bread  out  of 
the  mouths  of  honest  folks. 

Paul.  God  help  me  ! I have  not  tasted  bread  for  two  days, 

Porter.  The  Lord  save  us  ! why  did  Tit'  ye  say  so  1— take  the  trunk 
and  welkipi.  [Paul  trying  to  lift  it.]  [Exit  Dan. 

Gent  Come  along,  quick  ! [Exit  Gentleman. 

Paul.  [Unable  to  lift  it,  staggers  hack.]  I — I — can’t — I am  too  weak 
from  hunger. 

Porter.  Look  at  this,  my  jewel.  [Tossing  the  trunk  on  his  shoul- 
der.] That’s  the  way  of  id— all  right,  yer  honor  ! [Exit  Porter. 

Paul.  [Falling  against  the  lamp-post  in  despair , on  his  knees.] 
Oh,  God ! -you  who  have  refused  to  me  the  force  to  earn  my  bread 
give  me  the  resignation  to  bear  your  will. 

Re-enter  Lucy. 

Lucy.  The  lady  was  from  home— they  told  me  to  call  next  week— 
fclms°Uld  1 SGe  S°me  kiudly  face— 1 would  beg>  yes— I would  ask 

Enter  a Gentleman. 

Bir — pardon  me — would  you 

Gent.  Eh  1 


Lucy.  [Stammering.]  I — I — I 

Gent.  What  do  you  want  1 

Lucy.  [Faintly.]  The— the— Bowery— if— if— you  please— 

Gent.  Just  turn  to  the  right,  and  keep  strait  on.  [ 

Ivey.  Oh  coward  ! coward  ! — I have  not  the  courage  to  beg. 

Enter  Mrs  Fairweather. 

r.Mrs\  F'  The?  refused  to  take  my  ring— they  said  l had  stolen  it— 

f hey  drove  me  from  the  house.  To  what  have  i con  e ! to  bee  is 

-yes,  for  tjieip.  for  my  cjij]clren  ! ^ 


THE  J*OOL  OP  NEW  TORK 


m. 

Paul  [fiistnj.]  Let  me  return  to  our  home — perhaps  meU«  v 
Lucy  may  have  found  work. 

Mrs.  F.  Sir!  sir! — In  the  name  of  your  mother — help  my  pool 
children. 

Lucy.  [ Covering  her  face  with  one  hand , and  holding  out  the  othm .] 
For  pity’s  sake — give  me  the  price  of 

Paul.  Mother  ! ! i 

Lucy.  My  Brother  ! > Together 

Mrs.  F.  My  Son  ! ) 

Paul.  Oh,  mother!  my  own  Lucy!  my  heart  is  broken!  [They 
embrace .]  Have  you  concealed  from  me  the  extent  of  your  misery  J 

Mrs.  F,  My  son ! my  poor  children  ! I cannot  see  you  die  of  hm> 
ger  and  cold 1 

Paul.  Take  Lucy  home,  mother — and  I will  bring  you  food. 

Mrs.  F.  Paul,  promise  me  that  nothing  will  tempt  you  to  a dishon- 
orable act. 

Paul.  Do  not  fear,  mother ; the  wretched  have  always  one  resource 
■—they  can  die ! Do  not  weep,  Lucy — in  an  hour  I will  be  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Lucy  and  Mrs.  F. 

I will  go  and  await  the  crowd  as  they  leave  the  Academy  of  Music— 
amongst  them  Heaven  will  inspire  some  Christian  heart  to  aid  me. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — The  vestibule  of  the  Academy  of  Music. 

Enter  Alida  and  Livingstone.  Music  within. 

AUda.  How  strange  that  my  father  has  not  returned. 

Mark.  Allow  me  to  look  for  the  carriage. 

Alida.  I will  remain  here.  Exit  Livingstone. 

At  last  I have  won  the  husband  I desire.  He  is  entangled  in  my  fa- 
ther’s debt : in  one  month  hence  I shall  be  Livingstone's  wife.  Our  box 
is  now  crowded  with  the  first  people  in  New  York. — The  dear  Duke 
\ still  makes  love  to  me— to  which  Livingstone  appears  indifferent — so 
much  the  better — once  Mrs.  Livingstone  he  may  do  as  he  likes  and  so 
will  I. 

Enter  Paul. 

Paul.  Ah  ! ’tis  she — Alida  Bloodgood. 

AUda.  I wonder  they  permit  such  vagabonds  to  hang  about  the 
opera. 

Re-enter  Livingstone, 

Mark.  The  carriage  is  ready — [Recognizing  Paul]  Paul 

Paul.  Livingstone ! 

Mark.  Great  heaven ! In  what  a condition  do  I find  you. 

Paul.  We  are  pool — we  are  starving. 

Alida  Give  the  fellow  a dollar,  and  send  him  away. 

Mark.  My  dear  Alida,  you  do  not  know — this  is  a school  fellcw-* 
•n  old  friend — 

Alida  I know  that  you  are  keeping  me  in  the  cold — ah  ! I se*  the 


THE  POOH  OP  SEW  VORK 


Duke  of  Calcavella  od  tlio  steps  yonder,  smoking;  a clear  fie  wili 
see  me  home,  don't  let  me  take  you  from  your  old  friend. 

[ Exit. 

Mark.  [Aside. J Cold — heartless  girl!  [Aloud.]  Come,  Paul,  com# 
quickly,  bring  me  to  where  1 shall  find  your  mother — your  sister — 
Btay,  let  me  first  go  home,  and  get  money,  I will  meet  you  at  your 
lodgings-— where  do  you  live  1 

Paul.  Number  nineteen  and  a half  Cross  street — Five  Pc  tints — 1 
frill  wait  for  you  at  the  door. 

Mark.  In  less  than  an  hour  I shall  be  there.  [Exeunt. 

/SCENE. — No.  19}4  Cross  street — Five  Points.  Two  adjoining  attu 

rooms.  That  of  Badger,  l.  h.  That  of  the  Fairweather  family 

r.  h.  Music.  Lucy  is  seated  c.  and  Mrs.  Fairweather  kneels  it. 

Lucy.  Sure’y  an  hour  has  passed  and  Paul  has  not  returned. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  merciful  father!  protect  my  poor  children. 

Enter  Badger  in  his  attic  r.  h.  with  his  box  of  matches.  He  scrapes 
several  which  do  not  light.  Mrs.  F.  rises  and  goes  to  window. 

Bad.  One  hundred  matches  like  that  for  one  cent.  [Lighting  one.] 
Oh,  lucky  chance  ! Here’s  one  that  condescends. 

[Lights  a,  candle  in  a bottle. 

Mrs.  F.  Day  after  day  goes  by— no  hope — the  future  worse  than 
the  present — dark — dark.  Oh  ! this  load  of  wretchedness  is  too 

much  to  bear. 

Lucy.  The  candle  is  going. out. 

Mrs.  F.  So  much  the  better,  I shall  not  be  able  to  see  your  tears. 

[Lucy  rests  her  face  on  her  hands. 

Bad.  [Taking  a bottle  frc*K  his  pocket.]  There’s  the  concentrated 
essence  of  comfort — the  poor  man’s  plaster  for  the. inside. 

Lucy.  [Aside.]  Is  there  no  way  to  end  this  misery  I None  but 
death ! 

Bad  [Taking  from  pocket  a slice  of  bread  and  meat  wrapped  in  a 
bit  of  newspaper.]  Here’s  my  supper.  [Addressing  an  imaginary 
servant.]  James,  lay  the  table — spread  the  table  cloth. — “ Yes  sa” — 
[ Places  the  newspaper  over  the  table.]  It’s*  cold  here,  there’s  a draught 
in  this  room,  somewhere. — James,  champagne.  Thank  you,  James. 

[Drinks  and  eats. 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside,  coming  down  r.J  If  Paul  had  only  Lucy  to  sup- 
port, they  might  live — why  should  I prolong  my  life  only  to  hasten 
theirs. 

Bad.  The  draught  comes  from — [examining  the  wall] — yes  ther# 
are  great  chinks  in  the  wall — I must  see  my  landlord  and  solicit 
repairs.  A new  family  moved  into  the  next  room,  yesterday ; I won- 
der who  they  are  I 

Lucy.  The  wretched  always  have  one  resource — they  can  die  ! 

Bad.  [At  his  table  eating — he  has  taken  the  blanket  from  hit  bed 
and  wrapped  it  about  his  shoulders.]  Now  let  us  do  a little  business. 
James  turn  up  the  gas.  Yes  sa ! — [He  snuffs  the  candle  with  ku 


SI 


THE  POOR  OP  NEW  TORE. 


finger  & J Thank  you.  Ahem ! James,  Bloodgood  js  comma;  for  the 
receipt  bequeathed  to  me  by  the  old  sailor.  What  price  shall  we  set 
Upon  it,  James  ? 

Lucy.  [Aside.]  When  I am  gone,  there  will  be  one  mouth  less  to 
feed — Paul  will  have  but  one  care  to  provide  for. 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside  ] In  this  room,  we  had  some  charcoal — there  ia 
enough  left  to  bestow  on  me  an  easy  death. 

[Mrs.  Fairweather  exits  by  door  b.  h. 

Bad.  I think  $50,000  would  be  the  figure— Oh,  what  a prospeci 
opens  before  me— 50,000  dollars — I should  resume  specie  payments. 

Lucy . [Looks  into  r.  h.  room.]  What  is  mother  doing?  ah,  she  is 
lighting  the  pan  of  charcoal  on  which  we  prepare  our  food — ah  !— 
the  thought !— could  I induce  her  to  leave  me  alone.  Hem. — The 
deadly  fumes  of  that  fuel  will  bestow  on  me  an  easy  death. 

Mrs.  F.  [Re-enters. J It  is  there — now,  now,  while  I have  the  cour- 
age of  despair. 

Bad.  50,000  dollars  ! I’ll  have  a pair  of  fast  trotters,  and  dine  a* 
Delmonico’s.  James,  more  champagne.  [Takes  a drink  from  bottle.] 
Thank  you— 

Lucy  and  Mrs  F.  [Together.]  Mother — Lucy. 

Lucy.  Dear  mother — I have  just  thought  of  a friend — a — a — fellow 
work  girl,  from  whom  I may  get  assistance — 

Mrs.  F.  Go,  then,  my  child — yes — go  at  once. 

Lmcy.  I fear  to  go  alone.  Come  with  me,  you  can  wait  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  until  I come  out. 

Mrs.  F.  [Putting  on  her  bonnet.  Aside.]  When  she  is  out  of 
sight,  I can  return  and  accomplish  my  purpose. 

Lucy.  [Casting  a cloak  over  her  head.  Aside.]  I will  come  back 
by  another  way. 

Mrs.  F.  Come,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  I am  I’eady,  mother.  [Aside.]  She  does  not  think  that  w« 
are  about  to  part  forever. 

Mrs.  F.  [Aside. j My  poor  child  ! 

Lucy.  Kiss  me — mother,  for  my  heart  is  cold.  [They  embrace. 

Bad.  [Cogitating.]  50,000  dollars  ! I’ll  have  a box  at  Grace  church 
and  a pew  at  the  opera. 

Lucy.  Mother,  I am  ready,  [ Fluent. 

Bad.  [Finding  his  bottle  empty.]  What’s  the  news  1 Let  us  con- 
sult my  table  cloth.  What  journal  have  we  here.  [Reads.]  “ Cheva- 
lier Greely  has  got  a new  hat.” — It’s  the  Herald — What’s  here 
[Reads.]  “ You  lie — villainy — you  lie,  and  you  know  it.”  No',  it’l 
the  Tiibune. 

EiAer  Bloodgood. 

Blooa  Ah,  Mr.  Badger. 

Bad.  Please  to  wipe  your  I set,  before  you  come  in — my  carpet  il 
new.  I am  glad  to  see  you.  Take  a seat  upm*  the  sofa. 

[Pointing  to  bed. 

Blood.  Come,  sir;  to  business  You  have  thr  receipt  with  you.  1 
suppose  1 


THfi  POOH  0*  *i£\\  YORK. 


81 


Bad.  You  know  I’ve  got  it,  or  you  would  not  have  come. 

Blood.  How  much  do  you  want  for  it  I 

Bad.  Stay  a moment.  Let  us  see.  You  have  had  for  twenty  yeu* 
lr.  your  possession,  the  sum  of  $100,000,  the  profits  of  one  robbery- 
well,  at  eight  per  cent,  this  sum  would  now  be  doubled 

Blood.  Let  me  see  the  document,  and  then  we  can  estimate  its  value 

Bad  [Drawing  receipt  from  pocket.]  Here  it  is. 

blood.  [ Springing  towards  him.]  Let  me  have  it. 

I Bad.  Hands  off! 

I Blood.  [ Drawing  pistol.]  That  paper,  give  it  me,  or  I’ll  blow  your 
i/ains  out ! 

Bad.  [Edging  slowly  towards  the  led.]  Ah!  that’s  your  calculation. 

Blood l.  Now  you  are  in  my  power. 

Bad.  It’s  an  old  dodge,  but  ineffective.  Come,  no  violence — I’ll  give 
you  the  paper. 

Blood.  A bullet  is  good  argument. 

Bad.  [Drawing  from  beneath  his  pillow , two  enormous  pistols.]  A 
brace  of  bullets  are  better  still ! 

Blood.  Damnation ! 

Bad,  Derringer’s  self-cocking.  Drop  your  hand,  or  I’ll  blow  you 
into  pi. — So,  you  took  me  for  a fool : — that’s  where  you  made  a mis- 
take. I took  you  for  a thorough  rascal,  that’s  where  I did  not  make 
e mistake.  Now,  to  business. 

Blood.  [Surlily.]  How  much  do  you  want  I 

Bad.  Fifty  thousand  dollars  ! 

Blood.  Be  it  so. 

Bad.  In  gold,  or  Chemicals. 

Blood.  Very  well.  To-morrow — 

Bad.  No — to-night.  ' 

Blood.  To-night ! 

Bad,.  Yes  ; I wish  to  purchase  a brown  stone  house  on  the  avenue, 
early  in  the  morning. 

Blood.  Come  with  me  to  my  house  in  Madison  square. 

Bad.  No,  thank  you.  I’ll  expect  you  here  in  an  hour  with  the 
money. 

Blood.  [Aside.]  He  has  me  in  his  power — I must  yield.  [Aloud.] 

[ will  return,  then,  in  an  hour. 

Bad.  Let  me  light  you  out.  Mind  the  bannister — don’t  break  you: 
precious  neck,  at  least,  not  to-night.  No,  go  in  front,  will  you'?  1 
{refer  it. 

Blood.  What  for  ? 

Bad.  [ With  pistol  and  candle.]  A fancy  of  mine — a want  of  confl 
deuce.  A want  of  confidence,  in  fact,  pervades  the  community. 

[Exeunt, 


Re-enter  Lucy. 


J/ucy.  I took  a cross  street,  and  ran  rapidly  home.  Now  I am 
alone  ; the  fumes  of  the  charcoal  will  soon  fill  this  small  room.  They 
•jay  it  is  an  easy  death — but  let  me  not  hesitate — let  me  sleep  the 
ng  sleep  wJu*i  e there  are  no  more  tears,  no  more  suffering. 

' Exxi  into  closet  t a.  a. 


THE  POOR  OR  NTtW  YORK. 


*6 

Re-enter  Badoer. 

Bad.  So ! that  is  settled.  I hope  lie  will  be  cautious  and  escape 
the  gai  roters.  James,  my  chibouque.  | Takes  his  pipe . 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Fairweather,  r.  h. 

Mrs.  F.  Poor  Lucy!  I dared  not  look  back  upon  her,  as  we  parted 
forever.  Despai:  hastened  my  steps.  My  poor  children!  I nave  give.* 
you  all  I had,  anu  now  I hope  my  wretched  life  will  serve  you  in  y 'ur 
terribl?  need.  Come,  courage  ; let  me  prevent  the  fresh  air  from  en- 
tering. 

[ Takes  bits  of  linen  and  stops  window  and  door. 

Bad.  [Snuffing.}  I smell  charcoal — burning  charcoal — where  car 
it  come  from  1 

Mrs.  F.  Now  let  me  stop  the  door. 

Bad.  [Smoking.]  It’s  very  odd ; I’ve  a queer  feeling  in  my  head ; 
let  me  lie  down  awhile.  [Lies  on  his  bed. 

Enter  Lucy,  with  a brazier  of  charcoal,  alight. 

Mrs.  F.  That’s  done.  [Going  towards  closet , and  meeting  Lucy.] 
Now  the  hour  has  come. 

Lucy.  The  moment  has  arrived.  [Sets  down  the  brazier. 

Mrs.  F.  Lucy  ! 

Lucy.  Mother ! 

Mrs.  F.  My  child,  what  is  this  I For  what  purpose  are  you  here  1 

Iyucy.  And  you,  mother,  why  have  you  fastened  those  apertures  so 
closely  I Like  m«,  you  wished  to  die 1 

Mrs.  F.  No,  no,  you  shall  not  die ! my  darling  child — you  arc 
young — life  is  before  you — hope— happiness. 

Lucy.  The  future  ! what  is  it  1 The  man  I love  will  soon  wed  ano» 
tiler.  I have  no  future,  and  the  present  is  a torture. 

Mrs.  F.  Hush,  my  child,  hush  ! 

Juicy.  Is  it  not  better  to  die  thus,  than  by  either  grief  or  hunger  t 

Mrs1.  F.  [Falling  in  a chair.]  Already  my  senses  tail  me.  Lucy 
my  child,  live,  live  ! 

Lucy.  [Falls  at  her  feet.]  No;  let  us  die  together — thus,  mother— 
as  often  I knelt  to  you  as  a child,  let  me  pray  tor  those  we  love. 

Mrs.  F.  Oh,  merciful  Judge  in  heaven,  forgive  us— forgive  my 
chdd — and  let — your  anger  fall — on  me — alone 

Lucy.  God  bless  my  dear  brother — and  you  my  dear  Mark,  may — 
vou  be — hap — [Murmers  the  rest  of  the  prayer. 

Bad.  It’s  very  cold  ! I feel  quite  sleepy.  I must  not  go  to  sleep* 
{Sings  in  a low  voice.]  “ Oh,  down  in  ole  Virginny.” 

Paul.  [ Without , knocking .]  Mother,  open  the  door,  why  is  the 
door  locked  1 Mother,  mother  ! Open,  mother,  open  ! [Knocks 
violently.  Mrs.  F ,.  arising,  tries  to  reach  the  door , but  cannot , and 
N falls.  Paul  bursts  open  the  door  and  enters  with  Livingstone  ; they 
start  back — Livingstone  breaks  the  window , and  Paul  runs  to  his 
mother.]  Too  late!  too  late  ! They  have  committed  suicide  ! 

Mark.  They  live  still.  Quick,  bear  them  outside  into  the  air. 


¥Hfc  POOR  Op  NEW  10RK. 


81 

rrtes  Lucy,  out  while  Paul  assists  his  mother  into  the  next  room 

Bad.  [Starting  up. J How  hot  it  is  here — 1 cannot  breathe.  Hav* 
| dr  ink  too  much  ? Nonsense  ! 1 could  drink  a dozen  such  booties. 
Let  me  try  my  legs  a bit — where’s  the  door  ? T can’t  see  it- -my  head 
npins  round — come,  Badger,  no  nonsense  now.  God ! I’m  suffocating  ! 
Am  l going  to  die,  to  die!  like  that  oJd  sea  captain  I t" Tears  off  hit 
cravat..  ] Justice  of  Heaven  ! I am  strangling.  Help ! help  ! Bloodgood 
will  return  and  find  me  helpless,  then  he  wi’l  rob  me  of  the  receipt,  as 
I robbed  the  old  sailor — I know  him  of  old  — he  is  capable  of  it,  bu< 
he  shall  not  have  it ! There,  in  its  nook,  if  I have  strength  to  reach  it— 
it  is  safe — safe.  [ Drags  himself  along  the  foot  lifts  up  a loose  board 
puts  the  receipt  beneath  it  and  falls  exhausted  ] There  I 

Paul.  [ Entering  r.  h room.  1 I heard  smothered  cnes  for  help-  - 
they  came  from  this  floor.  r Exit. 

Enter  Bloodgood,  l.  h.  room,. 

Blood.  Here  I am,  Badger.  [ Starts  back,  suffocated .J  What  a suf- 
focating atmosphere  ! where  is  he?  ha  ! is  he  intoxicated? 

Paid.  [ Entering  l.  h.  room.]  Perhaps  the  cry  came  from  here 
dead  ? 

Blood.  Paul  Pairweatlier ! 

Paul.  Gideon  Bloodgood  ! 

Bad.  \ Raising  his  head.]  What  names  were  those  % Both  of  them' 
Together,  here!  [To  Paul.]  Listen — while  I yet  have  breath 
speak — nsten  ! Twenty  years  ago,  that  man  robbed  your  father  ol 
$100,000! 

Paul.  Robbed! 

Blood.  Scoundrel ! 

Bad.  I’ve  got  the  proofs. 

Paul.  The  proofs  ? 

Bad.  I have  ’em  safe — you’ll  find  ’em — th — ah!  [Falls  backward* 
m zms&d*  ; Paul  and  Bloodgoid  stand  aghast. 


$£»  w am  ** 

/ 


« 


THE  P Oi.  A v.  K SP.W  YOkR. 


ts 


ACT  V. 

ttOENE  I. — Brooklyn  Heights , overlooking  the  city  of  New  York 
and  its  harbors.  The  stage  is  occupied  by  a neut  gdrden,  on  a natu- 
ral terrace  of  the  heights — on  the  l.  h.,  a frame  cottage,  prettily 
built — a table,  with  breakfast  laid,  l.  h.,  at  which  Mrs.  Fairwea. 
ther  and  Paul  are  seated. 

Enter  Mrs.  Puffy,  from  the  cottage , with  a teapot. 

Mrs.  P.  There’s  the  tea.  Bless  me,  how  hot  it  is  to-day  ! whe 
would  think  that  we  were  in  the  month  of  February  ! [Sits. 

Mrs.  F.  Your  husband  is  late  to  breakfast. 

Paul.  Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Puffy,  gaily. 

Puffy.  How  is  everybody  1 and  above  everybody,  how  is  Miss  Lucy 
tfiis  morning  'l  [Sits  at  table. 

Mrs.  F.  Poor  child ! her  recovery  is  slow — the  fever  has  abated, 
but  she  is  still  very  weak. 

Paul.  Her  life  is  saved — for  a whole  month  she  hovered  over  the 
grave. 

Puffy.  But  how  is  it  we  never  see  Mr.  Livingstone  'l  our  benefactor 
Is  like  Santa  Claus — he  showers  benefits  and  blessings  on  us  all, 
yet  never  shows  us  his  face. 

Mrs.  F.  He  brought  us  back  to  this,  our  old  home — he  obtained 
employment  for  Paul  in  the  Navy  Yard. 

• Puffy.  He  set  me  up  again  in  my  patent  oven,  and  got  me  a gov- 
ernment contract  for  Navy  biscuit. 

Mrs.  P.  He  is  made  of  the  finest  flour  that  heaven  ever  put  inta 
human  baking;  he’ll  die  of  over-bigness  of  the  heart. 

Mrs.  F.  That’s  a disease  hereditary  in  your  family. 

Paul.  [Rising.]  I will  tell  you  why  Livingstone  avoids  our  grati- 
tude. Because  my  sister  Lucy  refused  his  love — because  he  has  sold 
his  hand  to  Alida  Bloodgood — and  he  has  given  us  the  purchase  mo- 
ney. 

Puffy.  And  amcngst  those  who  have,  served  u».  don’t  let  us  forget 
poor  Badger. 

Enter  Badger,  behind. 

Bad.  They  are  talking  of  me. 

Mrs.  F.  [Rising.]  Forget  him!  forget  the  man  who  watched  Luiy 
during  her  illness,  with  more  than  the  tenderness  of  a brother!  A 
woman  ne  ver  can  forget  any  one  who  has  been  kind  tc  her  children. 
Mrs.  P Them’s  my  sentiments  to  a hair. 

Bad.  You  shan’t  have  cause  to  change  them. 

Paul  Badger ! 

Bad.  Congratulate  me.  I have  been  appointed  to  the  police.  The 
comraissioners^waTited  a special  service  to  lay  on  to  Wall  street. 


THE  i»00li  uE  NEn  Y iKK 


89 


it  seems  has  concentrated  there,  and  we  want  to  ca^h  a 
v&fr  otwiider. 

Mrs.  P.  They  all  go  to  Europe. 

Puffy.  That  accounts  for  the  drain  of  specie. 

[Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  take  off  the  breakfast  tab^e. 

Mrs.  F.  I will  tell  Lucy  that  her  nurse  has  come. 

[Exit  into  cottage. 

Paul  Now,  Badger,  the  news. 

Bad.  Bad,  sir.  To-night  Mr.  Livingstone  is  to  be  married  to  Alid* 
l iloodgood. 

Paul.  What  shall  I dol  I dare  not  accuse  Bloodgood  of  this  rob- 
lery,  unless  you  can  produce  the  proofs — and  perhaps  the  wretch  ha* 
liscovered  and  destroyed  them.  1 

Bad.  I think  not.  When  I recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  char- 
coal. the  day  after  my  suffocation,  I started  for  my  lodging — i found 
die  house  shut  up,  guarded  by  a servant  of  Bloodgood’s — the  banker 
had  bought  the  place.  But  I had  concealed  the  document  too  cun- 
aiugly ; he  has  not  found  it. 

Paul.  But  knowing  this  man  to  be  a felon,  whom  we  may  be  able 
it  j.ny  hour  to  unmask,  can  we  allow  Livingstone  to  marry  his  daugh- 
ter r 

Enter  Livingstone. 

Lit  Paul,  I have  come  to  bid  you  farewell,  and  to  see  Lucy  fo. 
.he  last  time — 

Enter  Lucy. 

Lucy.  For  the  last  time,  why  so — 

[Paul  and  Badger  run  to  assist  her  forward. 

Liv.  Lucy,  dear  Lucy. 

Bad.  Now  take  care — sit  down — 

Lucy.  Ah,  my  good  kind  nurse.  [She  site.]  You  are  always  by  my 
Ide. 

Bad.  Always  ready  with  a dose  of  nasty  medicine,  ain’t  I — well 
•ow  I’ve  got  another  dose  ready — do  you  see  this  noble  kind  heart, 
Lucy,  it  looks  through  two  honest  blue  eyes  into  your  face — well 
tell  me  what  you  see  there — 

Lucy.  Why  do  you  ask  me  I [Troubled 

Bad.  Don’t  turn  your  eyes  away — the  time  nas  come  when  decep 
tion  is  a crime.  Lucy — look  in  his  face,  and  confess  the  infernal 
scheme  by  which  Alida  Bloodgood  compelled  you  to  renounce  your 
love. 

Liv.  Alida ! 

Lucy.  Has  she  betrayed  me — 

Bad.  No  ! you  betrayed  yourself — one  night  in  the  ravings  of  yout 
fever,  when  I held  your  hands  in  the  paroxyism  of  your  frenzy,  I 
heard  the  cries  that  came  from  your  poor  wounded  heart ; shall  3 
repeat  the  scene. 

Lucy.  [Hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.]  No,  no. 

Lit  Paul,  is  this  true  ? have  I been  deceived] 


THE  P< 


<;F  NEW  YORK 


no 

Paul.  Von  have— Lucy  confessed  to  me  this  infamrns  bargain, 
extorted  from  her  by  Alidu 'Bloodgood , and  to  save  you  from  ruin  she 
sacrificed  her  love — 

Liv.  Lucy  ! dear  Lucy,  look  up.  It  was  for  your  sake  alone  that 
I accepted  this  hated  union — to  save  you  and  yours  from  poverty — 
but  whisper  one  word,  tell  me  that  ruin  of  fortune  is  better  than  ruin 
Df  the  heart.  [Lucy  falls  upon  his  neck. 

Bad.  Hail  Columbia  ! I know  a grand  party  at  Madison  Square  that 
will  cave  in  to  night — hi ! — I shall  be  there  to  congratulate  that  sweet 
girl. 

Enter  Dan. 

Dan.  Mother ! mother ! where’s  my  hat,  quick,  there’s  a tire  in 
New  York.  [He  runs  into  the  house  and  re-enters  with  a telescope ; 
looks  off  towards  the  city. 

Bad.  Yes,  and  there  is  a fire  here  too,  but  one  we  don’t  want  put 
out — 

Paul.  Now  Mark,  I can  confess  to  you  that  documents  exist — proofs 
of  felony  against  Bloodgood,  which  may  at  any  moment  consign  him 
to  the  State  Prison  and  transfer  to  our  family  his  illgotten  wealth 

Liv.  Proofs  of  felony  'l 

Dan.  The  fire  is  in  Chatham  street. 

Paul.  Twenty  years  ago  he  robbed  my  father  of  100,000  dollars. 

Bad.  And  I was  his  accomplice  in  the  act;  we  shared  the  plunder 
between  us — 

Dan.  No  it  isn’t  in  Chatham  street — I see  it  plainly — it  is  in  Cross 
street,  Five  Points. 

Bad.  [Starting. J Cross  street — where,  where — [Runs  up. 

Liv.  But  if  these  proofs — these  documents  exist,  where  are  they  1 

Dan.  It  is  the  tenement  house  two  doors  from  the  corner. 

Bad.  Damnation  ! it  is  our  old  lodging  ! you  ask  where  are  these 
proofs,  these  documents  1 they  are  yonder,  in  that  burning  house — 
fired  by  Bloodgood  to  destroy  the  papers  he  could  not  find — curses 
on  him  ' 

Enter  Mrs.  Puffy,  with  Dan’s  hat 

Mrs.  P.  Here’s  your  hat,  Dan. 

Bod.  Quick  ! Dan,  my  son — for  our  lives  ! Dan  ! the  fortunes  of 
Lucy  and  Paul  and  the  old  woman  are  all  in  that  burning  house, 
[Dan  begins  to  thrust  his  trousers  into  his  boots 

Enter  Mrs.  Fairweather  and  Puffy. 

I mean  to  save  it  or  perish  in  the  flames. 

Count  me  in 


Tableau. 


{They  run  out 


THE  POOH  < ? NEW  TORE. 


4 


JyJNE  II  - Stage  dark.  The  exterior  of  the  tenement  house,  No. 
19)s,  Cross  street , Five  Points — the  shutters  of  all  the  windows  are 
dosed.  A light  is  seen  through  the  round  holes  in  the  shutters  of  the 
upper  windows — presently  a fame  rises — it  is  extinguished — then 
revives.  The  light  seen  to  descend  as  the  hearer  of  it  passes  down 
the  staircase , the  door  opens  cautiously — Bloodgood,  disguised , ap- 
pears— he  looks  round — closes  the  door  again — locks  it. 


Blood.  In  a tew  hoairSj  this  accursed  house  will  be  in  ruins.  The 
eceipt  iK'CTjrrcealed  there — and  it  will  be  consumed  in  the  flame 8 


[The  house  is  gradually  enveloped  in  fire , a cry  outside  is  heard 
‘ Fi-er  /”  “ Fi-er  T'  it  is  taken  up  by  other  voices  more  distant 
The  tocsin  sounds— other  churches  take  up  the  alarm — hells  of 
Engines  are  heard l;  Enter  a crowd  of  persons.  Enter  Badger,  with 
out  ooat  or  hat — he  tries  the  door— finds  it  fast ; seizes  a bar  of  iron 
and  dashes  in  the  ground  floor  window,  the  interior  is  seen,  in 
flames.  Enter  Ban. 

Dan.  [Seeing  Badger  climbing  into  the  window.']  Stop!  stop! 

[Badger  leaps  in  and  disappears.  Shouts  from  the  mob;  Dan  leaps 
in — another  shout.  Dan  leaps  out  again  black  andburned,  staggers 
forward  and  seems  overcome  by  the  heat  and  smoke.  The  shutters 
of  the  garret  fall  and  discover  Badger  in  the  upper  floor.  Another 
cry  from  the  crowd , a loud  crash  is  heard , Badger  disappears  as 
if  falling  with  the  inside  of  the  building.  The  shutters  of  the  win- 
dows fall  away,  and  the  inside  of  the  house  is  seen , gutted  by  the 
fire;  a cry  of  horror  is  uttered  by  the  mob.  Badger  drags  himself 
from  the  ruins,  and  falh  across  the  sill  of  the  lower  window.  Dan 
and,  two  of  the  mob  run  to  help  him  forward  but  recoil  before  the 
heat ; at  length  they  succeed  in  rescuing  his  body — which  lies  c. 
Livingstone,  Paul,  and  Puffy,  rush  on.  Dan  kneels  over  Bad- 
ger and  extinguishes  the  fire  which  clings  to  parts  of  his  clothes. 

SCENE  III. — The  Drawing-Room  in  Bloodgood' s Ma  ision,  mMaSk 
ison  Square — illuminated.  Music  within 

Enter  Bloodgood. 

Blood.  The  evidence  of  my  crime  is  destroyed — no  power  on  earth 
reveal  the  past. 

Enter  Alida,  dressed  as  a bride. 

Ily  dearest  child,  to-night  you  will  leave  this  roof;  but  from  thiahomi 
In  your  father’s  heart,  none  can  displace  you. 

Alida.  Oh,  dear  papa,  do  take  care  of  my  flounces — you  men  pan 
one  about  as  if  a dress  was  put  on  only  to  be  rumpled. 

Blood.  The  rooms  below  are  full  of  company.  Has  Livingston, 
arrived  '< 


.TIE  POOR  OP  SRW  YORK. 


n 

Alida,  I did  not  inquire.  The  duke  is  there,  lookltg  the  i/fctur 

misery,  while  all  my  female  friends  prefend  to  congra.ulate  rue— 
but  I know  they  are  dying  with  envy  and  spite. 

Blood.  And  do  these  feelings  constitute  the  happiest  day  of  yoas 
life  ? Alida,  have  you  no  heart  7 

Alida.  Yes,  father^ I have  a heart — but  it  is.  like  - yours.  It  i«  1 
f.Pon  safe  in  wliich  are  kept  the  secrets  of  the  past. 

Enter  Edwards. 

Edw.  The  clergyman  is  robed,  sir,  and  ready  to  perform  the  cer* 
®ouy. 

BIooj.  Let  the  bridesmaids  attend  Miss  Bloodgood. 

The  curtains  are  raised,  and  the  Bridesmaids  enter.  Bloodgood 

goes  up  and  ojf,  and  immediately  returns  with  the  bridal  party. 

Welcome,  my  kind  friends.  [Alida  speaks  aside  with  the  duke.]  Your 
oresence  fills  me  with  pride  and  joy — but  where  is  the  bridegroom  1 
nas  no  one  seen  my  son-in-law  7 

Edw.  [Announcing.]  Mr.  Mark  Livingstone. 

Enter  Livingstone. 

Blood.  Ah ! at  last.  What  a strange  costume  for  a bridegroom . 

Alida.  [Turns,  and  views  Livingstone.]  Had  I not  good  reasons 
»o  be  assured  of  your  sincerity,  Mr.  Livingstone,  your  appearance 
would  lead  me  to  believe  that  you  looked  upon  this  marriage  as  a jest, 
jr  a masquerade. 

Liv.  As  you  say,  Miss  Bloodgood,  it  is  a masquerade — but  it  is  on® 
where  more  than  one  mask  must  fall. 

Blood.  [Aside.]  What  does  he  mean  7 

Alida.  You  speak  in  a tone  of  menace.  May 

Blood.  Perhaps  I had  better  see  Mr.  Livingstone  alone — he  may  be 
under  some  misapprehension. 

Liv.  I am  under  none,  sir — although  I believe  you  may  be ; and 
what  I have  to  say  and  do,  demands  no  concealment.  I come  here  to 
decline  the  hand  of  your  daughter.  [Movement  amongst  the  crowd. 

Blood.  You  must  explain  this  public  insult. 

Liv.  I am  here  to  do  so,  but  1 do  not  owe  this  explanation  to  you ; 
i owe  it  to  myself,  and  those  friends  I see  here,  whose  presence  under 
your  roof  is  a tribute  to  the  name  I bear.  My  friends,  I found  myself 
in  this  man’s  debt;  he  held  in  pledge  all  I possessed — all  but  my 
name;  that  name  he  wanted  to  shelter  the  infamy  in  which  his  own 
covered ; 1 was  vile  enough  to  sell  it. 

Blood.  Go  on,  sir ; go  on. 

Lit  With  your  leave,  I will. 

Alida.  These  matters  you  were  fully  acquainted  with,  I presume, 
w hen  you  sought  my  hand. 

Liv.  But  I was  not  acquainted  with  the  conterts  of  these  letters — 
written  by  you,  to  the  Duke  of  Calcavella. 

Blood.  Dare  you  insinuate  that  they  contain  evidence  derogatory  W 
the  lmiiqi  9f  lay  child  7 


THE  POOR  OF  >TEW  YORK. 


4? 


Lim  No,  sir  ; but  I think  Miss  Bloodgood  will  agree  with  me,  that 
the  sentiments  expressed  in  these  letters  entitle  her  to  the  hand  of  the 
duke  rather  than  to  mine.  [He  hands  the  letters  to  Alida. 

Alida.  Let  him  go,  father. 

Liv.  Not  yet.  You  forget  that  my  friends  here  are  assembled  to 
witness  a marriage,  and  all  we  require  is  a bride. 

Blood.  Yes  ; a bride  who  can  pay  your  debts. 

Enter  Paul,  Lucy,  and  Mrs.  Fairweathkr, 

Paul.  No,  sir ; a bride  who  can  place  the  hand  of  a pure  and  .oy 
fog  maiden  in  that  of  a good  and  honest  man. 

'Blood.  How  dare  you  intrude  in  this  house  1 

Paul.  Because  it  is  mine;  because  your  whole  fortune  will  scarcely 
lerve  to  pay  the  debt  you  owe  the  widow  and  the  children  of  Adam 

Pair  weather ! , 

Blood.  Is  my  house  to  be  invaded  by  beggars  like  these  ! Jidwards, 
Bend  for  the  police.  Is  there  no  law  in  New  York  for  ruffians  1 

Enter  Badger,  in  the  uniform  of  an  officer  of  volice. 

Bad.  Yes,  plenty— and  here’s  the  police. 

Blood.  Badger! 

Bad.  What’s  left  of  him. 

Blood.  [ Wildly.]  Is  this  a conspiracy  to  ruin  me  1 

Bad.  That’s  it.  We  began  it  twenty  years  ago ; we’ve  been  hatch- 
ing it  ever  since  ; we  let  you  build  up  a fortune  ; we  tempted  you  to 
become  an  incendiary  ; we  led  you  on  from  misdemeanor  to  felony— 
and  that’s  what  I want  you  for. 

Blood.  What  do  you  mean  l 

Bad.  My  meaning  is  set  forth  very  clearly  in  an  affidavit,  on  which 
the  Recorder,  at  this  very  late  hour  for  business,  issued  this  warrant 
for  your  arrest. 

Enter  two  Policemen.  Alida  falls  in  a chair. 

Blood.  Incendiary  ! Dare  you  charge  a man  of  my  standing  in  this 
litv,  with  such  a crime,  without  any  cause  ! 

Bad.  Cause  ! you  wanted  to  burn  up  this  receipt,  which  I was  just 
In  time  to  rescue  from  the -flames  ! 

Blood.  [Drawing  a knife  ] Fiend  ! you  escaped  the  flames  here— 
aow  go  to  those  hereafter* 

Bad  Hollo  ! [Disarms  Bloodgood,  and  slips  a pair  of  handcuffs 

him. j Gideon — my  dear  Gideon — don’t  luse  your  temper. 

[Throws  him  back , manacled , on  the  tofts. 

Paid.  Miss  Bloodgood,  let  me  lead  you  from  this  room. 

Alida.  [Rises,  and  crosses  to  her  father .]  Father . 

Blood.  Alida,  my  child. 

Alida.  Is  this  true  1 [A  pause.]  It  is— I read  it  in  your  quailing 

*ye on  your  paling  lips.  And  it  was  for  this  that  you  raised  me  U 

the  envied  position  of  the  rich  man’s  heiress — for  this  you  roused  mj 
pride — for  this  you  decked  me  in  jewels — to  be  the  felon’s  daughter 
Farewell. 


44 


THE  POOR  OP  PE  TV  YORK 


Blood.  Alicia  -my  child — my  child — it  was  for  you  alone  I sinned 
- do  not  leavtrTmr: — — — — ^ — — 

A !i  da.  What  should  I do  in  this  city?  can  I earn  my  bread  ? what 
am  I tit  for— with  your  tainted  name  and  my  own  sad  heart?  [Throm 
down  her  bride's  coronet.']  I am  tit  for  the  same  fate  as  yours — infamy. 

[Exit. 

Ba,»,  Duke,  you  had  better  see  that  lady  out.  [Exit  Duke  Qidecn, 
cay  dear,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  two  friends  of  mine,  who  are 
anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance. 

Blood.  Take  me  away  ; I have  lost  my  child — my  Alida ; take  me 
L way  ; hide  me  from  all  the  world. 

Paul.  Stay  ! Mr.  Bloodgood,  in  the  midst  of  your  crime  th^re  was 
one  virtue  : you  loved  your  child ; even  now  your  heart  deplores  her 
ruin — not  your  own.  Badger,  give  me  that  receipt.  \ Takes  t/le  re- 
ceipt from  Badger.]  Do  you  acknowledge  this  paper  to  be  genuine  1 

Blood.  1 do. 

Paul.  [Tears  it.]  I have  no  charge  against  you.  Let  him  be  re- 
leased. Restore  to  me  my  fortune,  and  take  the  rest;  go,  follow  ' 
your  child  ; save  her  from  ruin,  and  live  a better  life. 

Blood.  I cannot  answer  you  as  » wouid.  [ Turns  aside  in  tears, 
and  goes  out  with  Policemen  and  Badger,  who  releases  Blood  good. 

Liv.  That  was  nobly  done,  Paul.  Now,  my  friends,  since  all  it 
prepared  for  my  marriage  let  the  ceremony  proceed. 

Mrs  F B”t  where  is  Mrs.  Puffy. 

Bad.  Here  they  are,  outside,  but  they  won’t  come  *n. 

Pam.  Why  not  1 

Bad.  They  are  afraid  of  walking  on  the  carpets. 

Liv.  Bring  them  in. 

Bad.  That’s  soon  done. 

Mrs.  F.  Poor,  good,  kind  people — the  first  to  share  our  sorrow,  the 
last  to  claim  a part  in  our  joy. 

Enter  Badger  and  Dan — Puffy  and  one  Policeman— Mrs.  Puffy 
and  the  other  Policeman. 

Bad.  They  wouldn’t  come — I was  obliged  to  take  ’em  in  custody. 

Dan.  Ob  ! mother,  where’s  tbisl 

Mrs.  P.  I’m  walkin’  on  a feather  bed. 

Puffy.  He  wouldn’t  let  me  wipe  my  shoes. 

Liv.  Come  in — these  carpets  have  n^ver  been  trodden  by  more 
honest  feet,  these  mirrors  have  never  reflected  kinder  faces — come 
la — breathe  the  air  here — you  will  purify  it. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  Dan,  what  grand  folks-— ain’t  they  1 

Dan.  Canvass  backs  every  one  on  ’em. 

Liv.  And  now,  Lucy,  I claim  your  hand.  [ Music  inside .]  All  u 
eady  for  the  c^emony. 

Bad.  Ton  have  seen  the  dark  side  of  life — you  can  appreciate  you? 
fortune,  fpr  you  have  learned  the  value  of  wealth. 

Mrs.  F.  No,  we  have  learned  the  value  of  poverty  [Owes  hand 
bo  Puffy.]  |t  opens  the  heart. 


-*»'*  wor  of  wrrtr  yohx 


m 

P&kI.  { Vn  the  public.)  Is  this  true?  Have  the  sufferings  w*  hn™ 
l^pietod  in  this  mimic  scene,  touched  your  hearts,  arid  cauwed  « 
tear  of  sympathy  to  fill  your  eyes  1 [f  so,  extend  to  us  your  hand? 

Mr F.  No,  not  to  us — but  when  you  leave  this  place,  as  you  r® 
turn  to  your  homes,  should  you  see  some  poor  creatures,  extend  yo¥# 
bands  to  them,  and  the  blessings  that  will  follow  vou  on  v«"*  way  wr 
he  (be  B»ost  crateful  tribute  you  can  pay  to  the 


POOR  OF  NSW  VGRK 


JUST  PUBLISHED 


What  Happened  to  Jones 

An  Original  Farce  in  Three  Acts 
By  GEORGE  H.  BROADHURST 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

JON  ES,  who  travels  for  a hymn-book  house 
EBENEZER  GOODLY,  a professor  of  anatomy 
ANTONY  GOODLY,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Ballarat 
RICHARD  HEATHERLY,  engaged  to  Marjorie 
THOMAS  HOLDER,  a policeman 
WILLIAM  BIGBEE,  an  inmate  of  the  Sanitarium 
HENRY  FULLER,  superintendent  of  the  Sanitarium 
MRS.  GOODLY,  Ebenezer’’ s wife 
CISSY,  Ebenezer' s ward 
MARJORIE,  ) 

MINERVA  ) ^enezer'>8  daughters 
ALVINA  STARLIGHT,  Mr.  Goodly's  sister 
HELMA,  a servant 

SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENES 

ACT  1. — Handsomely  furnished  room  in  home  of 
Ebenezer  Goodly. 

ACT  2.— The  same. 

ACT  3.  —The  same. 

% 

This  is  the  j oiliest  sort  of  a farce,  clean  and  sparkling  all  the  way 
lb  rough.  A professor  of  anatomy  is  lured  to  a prize  tight  and  the 
police  make  a raid  on  the  “miil.”  The  professor  escapes  to  his 
home,  followed  by  Jones,  a traveling  salesman,  who  sells  hymn 
books  when  he  can  and  playing  cards  when  he  cannot.  The  police 
are  on  the  trail,  so  Jones  disguises  himself  by  putting  on  a Bishop’s 
garb,  and  a lot  of  funny  complications  ensue.  The  other  funmakers 
are  aided  not  a little  by  an  escaped  lunatic.  This  celebrated  farce 
has  been  a tremendous  success  for  years  on  the  professional  stage  and 
is  now  published  for  the  first  time. 


PRICE,  50  CENTS 


JUST  PUBLISHED 


AT  YALE 

A Comedy  Drama  of  College  Life  in  Three  AcV 

By  OWEN  DAVIS 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


Dick  Sheeley. Yale  '05. 

Mr.  Clayton  Randal Of  New  York. 

Jack  Randal His  son,  Yale  ’05. 

Dave  Burly.  . Substitute  on  Yale  Crew. 

Jim  Tucker Captain  of  Yale  Crew. 

Jimsey A Telegraph  Messenger  Boy, 

Clancy A Prize-fighter. 

John  Kennedy Coach  Yale  Crew. 

Frank  Young Member  of  Yale  Crew. 

Ed.  Scott Friend  of  Dick  and  Member  of 

Crew. 

Tom  Haynes Member  of  Yale  Crew* 

Robert  Crosby Member  of  Yale  Crew. 

Jepson Boatman. 

Pol  

Harry  Wilson 

Will  Taylor 

Mrs.  Randal Jack’s  Mother. 

Dorothy  Randal Her  daughter. 

Polly  Burk A friend  of  Dorothy. 

Mame  Brady A poor  girl. 


SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENES 
ACT  I. — Vanderbilt  Hall,  New  Haven. 

(ACT  II. — Scene  1. — A Boat  House,  Gales  Ferry. 

Scene  2. — The  Start.  Gales  Ferry  Quarters. 

Scene  3. — The  Race.  Thames  River. 

ACT  III. — Exterior  of  Griswold  Hotel,  Eastern  Point.  New  Lon- 
don. The  night  of  the  race. 

A Comedy  Drama  of  American  College  Life  in  Three  Acts,  by  Owen  Davis, 
feis  piece  was  played  with  tremendous  success  all  over  the  United  States  by 
Paul  Gilmore.  Sixteen  males,  four  females,  four  of  the  men  being'  unimportant. 
This  is  a play  with  a distinct  college  setting,  in  which  athletics  are  prominent; 
j ist  the  kind  of  play  that  is  wanted  by  nearly  every  high  school  and  college  con- 
templating putting  on  a play  as  part  of  their  commencement  exercises.  There 
are  pretty  coliege  girls,  fre-hmen.  a telegranh  messenger  boy.  coaches,  typical 
college  boys,  members  of  the  crew,  substitutes,  etc.  Any  number  pf  male?  an<3 
females  be  used  In  the  ensembles.  Plays  a full  evening., 


JUST  PUBLISHED 

The  Great  Successful  College  Play  Entitled 

CUPID  AT  VASSAR 

A COMEDY  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

By  OWEN  DAVIS 

AUTHOR  OF  “AT  YALE” 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


Tohit  Willett.  . 

Amos  North 

Shiny 

Hank  Gubbin.. 
Mrs.  Newton.  . 

Kate 

Wanda 

Miss  Page 

Sally  Webb.  . „ 
Matty  Hart.  . . 
Alice  Worth.. 
Patty  Snow.  . . 
Helen  Conway 


,A  Young  Architect. 

Of  North  & Son,  Bankers. 
,A  Lazy  Darkey. 

The  Hired  Man. 

Of  Great  Falls,  Vermont* 
Her  Daughter. 

Kate’s  Half-sister. 


As  many  more  jollege  girls  as  are  desired. 


SYNOPSIS 


Act  I 

Scene,  sitting-room  of  Kate’s  home  in  Vermont.  (At  the  Old 
Home.) 

Act  II 

Scene,  Kate's  room,  in  a senior  double.  (At  Vassar.) 

Act  III 

Scene,  same  set  as  Act  I.  with  snow  and  winter  backing  and 
Christmas  tree,  etc.  (Vacation  Time.) 

Act  IV 


Scene,  college  campus  at  Vassar.  (Graduation  Day.  The  Daisy 
Chain.) 


This  comedy  is  eminently  suited  to  girls’  schools  and  colleges,  as  it 
can  be  played  by  all  females.  There  are  only  four  male  char- 
acters, two  of  which  are  eccentric  parts,  and  all  the  male  parts  can 
be  easily  dressed  by  girls.  The  play  has  all  college  surroundings, 
and  the  last  act  contains  the  f amous  daisy  chain  which  is  so  popular 
at  girls  colleges. 

PRICE,  25  CENTS 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD  DRAMA. 

E\)t  Acting  IBMtfon. 

No.  CXC. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT 

OR, 

A SEA-SIDE  STOR  Y. 


% pelo- grama,  in  u g^cfs. 


BY  DOUGLAS  JF-BROLD, 

Author  of  The  Mutiny  at  the  Nore , Devil's  Ducat,  B;;de  of  Ludgatet 
Thomas  a Becket,  The  Golden  Calf  \ Sally  in  our  Sec, 


TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED 


4 Description  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exits— 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and 
the  whole  of  the  Stage  Business. 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  THE 

PRINCIPAL  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  THEATRES. 


New  York:  London  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH  & SON,  SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

PUBLISHERS,  PUBLISHER, 

28  WEST  23d  STREET,  89,  STRAND. 


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® o % t u m e . — [ Ambrose  Gwinett  J 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. — First  dress : Short  browi  mnic  and  vest 
with  full  trunks — hose  and  half  boots.  Second  dress : Tunic  anc} 
long  cloak — hat  and  feathers.  4 

NED  GRAYLING. — First  dress:  That  of  a blacksmith.  Second - 
dress:  A short  plain  tunic — full  trunks — hose,  and  a small  round 
hat.  Third  dress : That  of  a mere  mendicant. 

GILBERT. — First  dress:  A short  close  tunic — shoes  and  stockings. 
Second  dress : Suitable  to  the  advanced  age  of  the  wearer. 

COLLINS. — First  dress:  Short  tunic.  Seeond  dress:  Morning  gown 

LABEL. — Barber’s  dress — three-cornered  hat  and  cane. 

WILL  ASH  and  BLACKTHORNE.— Short  tunics,  &c. 

GEORGE. — Sailor’s  dress. 

BOLT. — Dark  tunic,  &c. 

OFFICER.— -The  usual  costume. 

REEF. — Blue  jacket — white  trowsers — straw  hat. 

LUCY  FAIRLOVE. — First  dress:  Plain  bodied  gown — straw  hat 
Second  dress : A black  open  gown  with  train. 

JENNY. — First  dress:  That  of  a peasant  girl.  Second  dress:  Gown, 
cap  and  apron. 

MARY. — Peasant’s  dress. 

Villagers,  Peasants,  &c.,  in  the  usual  costume. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance,  Left.  R.  First  Entrance,  Right.  S.  E.  L. 
fecond  Entrance,  Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Right.  U.  E.  L. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance,  Right.  C.  Centre. 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance , 
Left.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R 
Door  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Left.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door,  Left.  U.  D.  R. 
Upper  Door,  Right. 

***  The  reader  is  supposed  to  1 e on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience. 


AMBROSE  GM  INETT, 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — View  of  the  Country . 

Enter  Grayling  and  Collins,  r. 

Gray.  Softly,  master  Collins,  softly, — come,  there  is  life  in  you  yet, 
man. 

Col.  To  be  thrown  from  a horse  after  my  experience 

Gray.  Oh,  the  best  man  may  be  thrown,  and  the  best  horse  throw 
too ; but  come,  you  have  no  bones  broken.  Had  any  man  but  myself, 
Ned  Grayling,  shoed  your  horse,  I should  have  said  something  had 
been  amiss  with  his  irons — but  that  couldn’t  be. 

Col.  No  matter,  I can  now  make  my  way  homeward : but.  hark’ye, 
not  a word  about  this  accident,  not  a syllable,  or  I shall  never  be 
able  to  sit  in  a saddle  again,  without  first  hearing  a lecture  from  my 
wife  and  Lucy. 

Gray.  Lucy — aye,  master  Collins,  she  has  a tender  heart  I warrant 
— I could  work  at  my  forge  all  day  in  the  hottest  June,  so  that  Lucy 
would  but  smile,  when 

Col.  There  must  be  no  more  of  this.  You  know  I have  told  you 
more  than  a hundred  times  that  Lucy  cannot  love  you. 

Gray . How  do  you  know  that  1 

Col.  She  has  said  so,  and  do  you  suppose  she  would  speak  any 
thing  but  truth  1 

Gray.  Why,  perhaps  she  would,  and  perhaps  she  wouldn’t  1 tell 
you,  master  Collins,  my  heart’s  set  upon  the  girl — if  she  refuse  me — 
why  I know  the  end  on’t.  Ned  Grayling,  once  the  sober  and  indus- 
trious smith,  will  become  an  outcast  and  a vagabond. 

Col.  This  is  all  folly — a stout  able  fellow  turning  whimperer. 

Gray.  Stout,  able, — yes,  I was,  and  might  be  so  again  ; but  thoughts 

will  sometimes  come  across  me,  and  I feel I tell  you  once  more. 

master  Collin?  my  heart  is  set  upon  the  girl. 


AMBROSE  OWINETT.  6 

Col.  You’ll  get  the  better  of  this,  think  no  more  of  her : nothing  so 
easy. 

Gray.  There  are  some  matters  very,  very  easy.  It  is  easy  for  you, 
a man  well  in  trade,  with  children  flourishing  about  you,  and  all  the 
world  looking  with  a sunny  face  upon  you — it  is  easy  for  you  to  say 
to  a man  like  me,  “You  are  poor  and  friendless — you  have  placed 
your  affections  on  a being  to  sweeten  the  bitterness  of  your  lot,  to 
cheer  and  bless  you  on  the  road  of  life,  yet  she  can  never  be  yours — 
think  no  more  of  her,”  this  is  easy — “ nothing  so  easy.” 

Col.  Farewell,  good  fellow.  I meant  not  to  insult  or  offend  you. 
If  you  can  obtain  my  niece’s  consent,  why,  to  prove  that  I love 
honesty,  for  its  own  sake,  I’ll  give  you  whatever  help  my  means  afford. 
If,  however,  the  girl  refuses,  strive  to  forget  her.  Believe  me,  there 
is  scarcely  a more  pitiable  object  than  a man  following  with  spaniel- 
like humility,  the  woman  who  despises  him.  [Exit,  l. 

Gray.  Despises ! — did  she  ever  say,  —no ! no  ! she  couldn’t,  yet 
when  I met  her  last,  though  she  uttered  not  a sound,  her  eyes  looked 
hate — as  they  flashed  upon  me,  I felt  humbled — a wretch  ! a very 
worm. 

Enter  Gilbert,  r.,  singing,  “ A merry  little  plough  boy.” 

Gil.  Well,  now  master’s  gone  out,  I think  I have  little  time  to  see 
my  Jenny — master  and  mistress  have  no  compassion  for  us  lovers — 
always  work,  work;  they  think  once  a week  is  quite  enough  for 
lovers  to  see  one  another,  and  unfortunately  my  fellow  servant  is  in 
love  as  well  as  I am  ; and  being  obliged  to  keep  house,  I could  only 
get  out  once  a fortnight,  if  it  wasn’t  for  Lucy. 

Gray.  [Starting.]  Lucy  ! who  said  any  thing  about  Lucy  1 

Gil.  I did ! It’s  a good  Christian  name,  isn’t  it  1 and  no  treason  in 
it. 

Gray.  No,  no,  but  you  startled  me. 

Gil.  I should  like  to  know  what  right  a man  has  to  be  startled 
when  I say  Lucy — why  one  would  ihink  you  were  married,  and  it 
was  the  name  of  your  wife. 

Gray.  Lucy  my  wife,  no,  no. 

Gil.  No,  I should  think  not  indeed. 

Gray.  And  why  should  you  think  1 but  I’m  wrong  to  be  so  pas- 
sionate— think  no  more  of  it,  good  Gilbert. 

Gil.  A cool  way  of  settling  matters  ; you  first  fly  at  a man  like  a 
dragon — make  his  heart  jump  like  a tennis  ball — and  then  say,  think 
nothing  of  it,  good  Gilbert. 

Gray.  I confess  I am  very  foolish. 

Gil.  Oh,  spare  your  confession:  people  will  judge  for  themselves. 

Gray.  [Aside.]  1 am  almost  ashamed  to  do  it,  yet  I will. 

Gil.  Why,  what’s  the  matter  1 you  are  looking  at  me  as  if,  like  a 
highwayman,  you  were  considering  which  pocket  I carried  my  money 

in. 

Gray.  Pray,  good  Gilbert,  tell  me,  do  you  know  whether  Miss 
Lucy  has  any  admirers  1 

Gil.  Admirers  ! to  be  sure  she  has. 


AMBROSE  UWTNETT. 


Gray.  She  "has ! 

Gil.  Hundreds— don’t  the  whole  town  admire  her'?  don’t  all  our 
customers  say  pretty  things  to  her*?  don’t  I admire  her  1 and  hav’n’ 

I seen  you  looking  at  her  1 

Gray.  Looking  at  her ! — how  1 

Gil.  How,  why  like  a dog  that  had  once-been  well  kicked,  and  was 
afraid  of  being  known  a second  time. 

Gray.  Villain ! do  you  make  mirth  of  my  sufferings  ? am  I sport 
for  fools  1 answer  my  question,  or  I’ll  shake  your  soul  out  on  the 
wind — tell  me — 

Gil.  If  the  fox  had  never  ventured  where  he  had  no  business,  he'd 
have  kept  his  tail. 

Gray.  What  mean  you  h 

Gil.  If  you  had  minded  your  own  affairs,  you’d  not  have  lost  your 
temper. 

Gray.  Answer 

Gil.  Not  a word  ; if  you  are  inclined  to  as’k  questions,  a little  far- 
ther on  there’s  a finger  post — when  you  have  read  one  side,  you  know 
you  can  walk  round  to  the  other. 

Gray.  I shall  but  make  my  agitation  the  more  apparent.  Never 
till  this  moment  did  I feel  the  fulness  of  my  passion.  Come,  rouse 
man,  stand  no  longer  like  a coward,  eyeing  the  game,  but  take  the 
dice,  and  at  one  bold  throw,  decide  your  fate.  [Exit,  l. 

Gil.  Aye,  its  all  no  use,  master  Gray ; Lucy  Fairlove  is  no  match 
for  you.  No,  no,  if  I mistake  not  there’s  another,  smoother  faced 
young  man  has  been  asking  if  anybody’s  at  home  at  the  heart  of 
Lucy — but  mum — I’m  sworn  to  secrecy, — and  now  for  Jenny  ! dear 
me,  I’ve  been  loitering  so  long,  and  have  so  much  to  say  to  her — then 
I’ve  so  much  to  do — for  the  Judges  are  coming  down  to-morrow  to 
make  a clear  place  of  the  prison — and  then  there’s — but  stop,  whilst 
I am  running  to  Jenny,  I can  think  of  these  matters  by  the  way. 

[Exit,  l. 

SCENE  II .—  Wood. 

Enter  Ambrose  Gwinett,  running,  l. 

Gwm.  I’ve  distanced  them — but  i’faith  I’ve  had  to  run  for  it.— No, 
no,  fair  gentlemen,  I hope  yet  to  have  many  a blithe  day  ashore — 
high  winds,  roaring  seas,  and  the  middle-watch  have  no  relish  for 
Gwinett — make  a sailor  of  me,  what,  and  leave  Lucy  Fairlove  ?—  I’ve 
hurt  my  wrist  in  the  struggle  with  one  of  the  gang — [takes  his  hand- 
kerchief, which  is  stained  with  blood,  from  around  his  arm  J It  is 
but  a scratch — if  I bind  it  up  again  it  may  excite  the  alarm  of  Lucy 
— no,  Time  is  the  best  surgeon,  and  to  him  I trust  it.  [Pwtfs  the  hand- 
kerchief in  his  pocket.]  Eh  ! who  have  we  here  1 by  all  my  hopes, 
rucy  herself. 

Enter  Lucy  Fairlove,  r. 

Lucy.  Ambrose. 

Gwin  Come,  this  is  kind  of  you — nay,  it  is  more  than  I deserve. 

Lucy.  What  is  kind  or  more  than  you  deserve  1 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


7 


Gwin.  Why  coming  to  meet  me  through  this  lone  road 1 * 

Lucy.  Meet  you — what  vanity — not  I indeed,  I was  merely  taking 
my  morning’s  walk,  thinking  of — of — 

Gwin.  Come,  come,  confess  it. 

Lucy.  Well  then,  I do  confess,  I wished  to  meet  you,  to  tell  you 
that 

Gwin.  You  have  spoken  to  your  uncle  1 

Lucy.  On  the  contrary — to  desire  you  to  defer 

Gwin.  Why,  do  you  fear  a refusal  1 Why  should  he  refuse — have 

I not  every  prospect— will  not  my  character 

Lucy.  Yes,  more  than  satisfy  him,  but  = 

Gwin.  Or  perhaps  Lucy,  there  is  another  whom  you  would  prefer 
to  make  this  proposal. 

Lucy.  This  is  unkind — you  do  not  believe  so. 

Gwin.  Well,  be  it  as  you  will ; I believe  nought  but  truth,  but  in- 
locence  in  Lucy  Fairlove,  and  by  this  kiss — 

Grayling  looking  from  wing , r. 

Gray.  Hem  ! holloa  ! there. 

Gwin.  How  now — what  want  you  'l 

Gray.  Want!  [Aside  ] Oh!  Lucy,  Lucy ! nothing. 

Gwin.  Then  wherefore  did  you  call  1 

Gray.  Because  it  pleased  me;  a man  may  use  his  own  lungs  I 
trow. 

Lucy.  [Aside.]  Alas  ! I fear  some  violence. 

Gwin.  Aye  and  his  own  legs ; they  cannot  do  him  better  service 
than  by  removing  him  from  where  he  is  not  wanted. 

Gray.  [Coming  between  them,  folding  his  arms  and  looking  doq- 
qedly  at  Gwinett.]  Now  I sha’n’t  go. 

Gwin.  Would  you  quarrel,  fellow  1 

Gray.  Aye— yes— come,  will  you  fight  with  me. 

Lucy.  [Interposing.]  For  heaven’s  sake  subdue  this  rashness — 
Gwinett — Grayling — good,  kind  Master  Grayling — 

Gray.  Good  kind  Master  Grayling — you  speak  falsely,  Lucy  Fair- 
love — 

Gwin.  Falsely  1 

Gray.  Aye,  Falsely ! she  thinks  me  neither  good  nor  kind — but  I 
see  how  it  is — I have  thought  so  a long  time.  [After  eyeing  Gwinett 
and  Lucy  with  extreme  malice.]  I see  how  it  is — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[Laughing  sarcastically. 

Gwin.  Fellow,  look  not  with  such  devilish  malice  but  give  your 
venom  utterance. 

Gray.  Venom — aye — the  right  word,  venom,  and  yet  who’d  have 
bought  we  should  have  found  it  where  all  looked  so  purely. 

Gwin.  Wretch!  would  you  say — 

Gray.  Nothing — nothing — where  we  have  facts  what  need  of  words  1 
the  artless,  timid  Lucy,  she  who  moves  about  the  town  with  closed 
lips  and  downcast  eyes — who  flutters  and  blushes  at  a stranger’s 
look — can  steal  into  a wood— oh  ! shame — shame. 

Gwin.  Shame ! villain ! but  no,  to  infamy  so  black  as  this,  the 
be  it  return  is  the  silent  loathing  of  contempt. 


8 


AMRROSE  GWINETT. 


Gray.  What ! would  you  go  with  him,  Lucy  1 

Jfiicy.  Grayling,  never  again,  in  town  or  field,  under  my  uncle’s 
roof,  or  beneath  the  open  sky,  that  you  have  so  lately  made  a witness 
to  your  infamy,  dare  to  pronounce  my  name  ; there  is  a poison  fester- 
ing in  your  lips,  and  all  that  passes  through  is  tainting — your  words 
fall  like  a blight  upon  the  best  and  purest — to  be  named  by  you,  is  to 
be  scandalized — once  whilst  I turned  from,  I pitied  you — you  are  now 
become  the  lowest,  the  most  abject  of  created  things — the  libeller,  the 
hateful,  heartless  libeller  of  an  innocent  woman.  Farewell,  if  you  can 
never  more  be  happy,  at  least  strive  to  be  good  .[Exit  with  Gwinett,  l. 

Gray.  Lucy,  Lucy,  upon  my  knees — I meant  not  what  I said — • 
’twas  passion — madness — eh,  what — now  she  takes  him  by  the  arm — 
they’re  gone — I feel  as  I had  drank  a draught  of  poison — never  sound 
her  name  again  1 yes,  and  I deserve  it — I am  a wretch  1 — a ruffian, — 
to  breathe  a blight  over  so  fair  a flower.  I feel  as  if  all  the  world, — 
the  sky,  the  fields,  the  bright  sun  were  passing  from  me,  and  I stood 
fettered  in  a dark  and  loathsome  den — my  heart  is  numbed,  and  my 
brain  palsied. 

Enter  Reef  and  Sailors,  r. 

Reef.  A plague  take  these  woods,  I see  no  good  in  ’em — there’s  no 
looking  out  a head  the  length  of  a bowsprit ; I know  he  run  down 
here. 

lstf  Sailor.  That’s  what  I said  at  first,  and  if  you  had  taken  my  ad- 
vice we  should  have  come  here  without  staying  beating  about  the 
bushes  like  a parcel  of  harriers. 

Reef.  He  was  a smart,  clean  fellow,  and  would  have  done  credit  to 
the  captain’s  gig. — Eh  ! who  have  we  here  ? — come,  one  man  is  as 
good  as  another,  and  this  fellow  seems  a strong  one. 

Gray.  How  now  ! — what  would  you  1 

Reef.  What  would  we  1 — why,  what  do  you  think  of  topping  your 
boom — pulling  your  halyards  taut,  and  turning  sailor  1 

Gray.  Sailor ! 

Reef.  Aye — why  you  look  as  surprised  as  if  we  wanted  to  make 
jTou  port  admiral  at  once. 

Gray.  Turn  sailor  1 

Reef.  Sailor — what’s  the  use  of  turning  the  word  over  so  with  your 
tongue — I said  sailor — it’s  a useless  gentility  with  us  to  ask  you — ■ 
because  if  you  don’t  like  us,  I can  tell  you  we  have  taken  a very  great 
liking  to  you. 

Gray.  With  all  my  heart — Lucy  is  gone  for  ever — this  place  is 
hateful  to  me — amid  the  perils  of  the  ocean,  I may  find  my  best  re- 
lief— come. 

Reef.  That’s  right  my  hearty — come,  scud  away — eh,  what  have 
you  brought  yourself  up  with  a round  turn  for  1 

Gray.  Then  I leave  my  rival  to  the  undisturbed  possession  of 

oh,  the  thought  is  withering — no,  no,  I cannot. 

Reef  Cannot!  we’re  not  to  be  put  off,  and  by  a landsman — so  come, 
there’s  one  fellow  already  has  outsailed  us,  piloting  among  these 
breakers, — one  fellow  this  morning — 


AMBROSE  GWIHETT. 


9 


Gray.  This  morning — what  kind  of  man  1 

Reef.  Why,  to  say  the  truth,  messmate,  he  was  a trim,  taut-rigged 
craft,  and  a devilish  deal  better  looking  than  you  are. 

Gray.  And  he  escaped  from  you  1 

Reef.  Yes,  but  that’s  more  than  we  intend  let  you  do,  so  come. 

Gray.  Oh,  it  will  be  a sweet  revenge — one  moment — how  stands 
your  pocket  1 

Reef.  Why  not  a shot  in  the  locker. 

Gray.  Here.  [Takes  out  a purse. 

Reef.  Eh  ! how  did  you  come  by  all  that  1 you  hav’n’t  run  a pistol 
against  a traveler’s  head,  eh  1 

Gray.  These  are  the  savings  of  a life  of  toil — I had  hoarded  them 
up  for  a far  different  purpose — but  so  that  they  buy  me  revenge — 

Reef.  Aye,  that’s  a bad  commodity  ; for  when  people  are  inclined 
to  purchase,  they’ll  do  it  at  any  rate ; but  I say,  no  foul  tricks  you 
know. 

Gray.  You  say  one  man  escaped  you  this  morning,  now  I’ll  lead 
you  to  him : moreover,  if  you  secure  him,  this  purse  shall  be  your 
reward. 

Reef.  Shall  it ! we  are  the  boys  ; and  what’s  more,  we  don’t  mind 
giving  you  your  discharge  into  the  bargain. 

Gray.  Come  on  then ; follow  me  into  the  town,  and  when  the  night 
comes  on,  I’ll  find  means  to  throw  your  victim  into  your  hands ; bear 
him  away  with  as  little  noise  as  possible. 

Reef.  Oh,  never  fear — if  he  attempts  to  hallo,  we’ll  put  a stopper 
in  his  mouth  to  spoil  his  music. 

Gray  ’Tis  well — thus  I shall  be  revenged — Lucy,  if  you  are  re- 
solved to  hate,  at  least  you  shall  have  ample  reason  for  it. 

[Exit  with  sailors,  h, 

SCENE  III. — A Room  in  the  Blake's  Head. 

Enter  Label,  l. 

Label.  Well,  now  let  me  see,  where’s  my  next  point  of  destination? 
ah,  Dover.  Thus  I go  through  the  country,  and  by  both  my  trades 
of  barber  and  doctor,  contrive  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  life,  and 
lay  by  a little  for  the  snows  of  old  age.  Had  bad  business  here  at 
Deal : all  the  people  so  plaguily  healthy — not  a tooth  to  be  drawn — 
not  a vein  to  be  opened  ; the  landlord  here,  master  Collins,  has  been 
my  only  customer — the  only  man  for  whom  I have  had  occasion  to 
draw  lancet.  Now  its  very  odd  why  he  should  be  so  secret  about  it 
— all  to  prevent  alarming  his  wife  he  says, — good  tender  man. 

Enter  Gilbert,  r. 

Gil.  What,  master  Label,  ah ! bad  work  for  you — all  hearty  as 
oaks — not  a pulse  to  be  felt  in  all  Deal. 

Label.  Ah,  I can’t  think  how  that  is. 

Gil.  Can’t  you  ? I’ll  tell  you — we’ve  no  doctors  with  us ; nobody 
but  you,  and  you’ll  never  do  any  harm,  because 

Label.  Because- -because  what  ? 


JO 


AMUIlOi'-K  C WuN  KTT. 


Gil.  Why  we  all  know  you,  and  there’s  few  will  give  you  the  chance , 
who  do  you  think  would  employ  a doctor  who  goes  about  calling  at 
peoples’  houses  to  mend  their  constitutions,  as  tinkers  call  for  old 

kettles. 

Label.  Ah,  that’s  it,  humble  merit  may  trudge  its  shoes  off,  and 
never  finger  a fee,  whilst  swaggering  impudence  bounces  out  of  a 
carriage,  and  all  he  touches  turns  to  gold.  Farewell,  good  Gilbert, 
farewell — I’m  off  for  Dover. 

Gil.  What!  to-night] 

Label.  Yes,  directly. 

Gil.  Why  you  must  pass  through  the  church-yard. 

Label.  What  of  that] 

Gil.  Nothing,  ‘ nly  if  you  ever  had  any  patients,  I thought  you 
might  have  felt  some  qualms  in  taking  that  road. 

Label.  Ever  had  any  patients,  I’ll  whisper  a secret  in  your  ear  ; I’ve 
had  one  in  this  house!  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that!  What  fol- 
lows now  7 

Gil.  What  follows  now  ? why  the  grave-digger,  I’m  afraid  ; I say 
I wonder  you  didn’t  add  the  trade  of  undertaker  to  that  of  doetor. 

Label.  Why  7 

Gil.  Why  ! how  nicely  you  could  make  one  business  play  into  the 
other:  when  called  in  to  a patient,  as  soon  as  you  had  prescribed  for 
him,  you  know,  you  might  have  begun  to  measure  him  for  his  coffin. 

Label.  Ah,  you’re  a droll  fellow,  but  we  won’t  quarrel ; I dare  say 
you  think  me  very  dull  now,  but  bless  you  I’m  not,  when  I’m  roused 
1 can  be  devilish  droll — very  witty  indeed. 

Gil.  Aye,  your  wit  is,  I suppose,  like  your  medicine — it  must  be 
well  shaken  before  its  fit  to  be  administered;  now  how  many  of  your 
jokes  generally  go  to  a dose] 

Label.  No,  no,  it  won’t  do,  I’m  not  to  be  drawn  out  now — I’ve  no 
time  to  be  comical,  I must  away  for  Dover  this  instant. 

Gil.  A word  with  you,  the  sharks  are  out  tooight. 

Label.  The  sharks'? 

Gil.  Aye,  the  blue-jackets,  the  press-gang — now  you’d  be  invaluable 
to  them;  take  my  word,  if  they  see  you,  you  are  a lost  man. 

Label.  Never  fear  me,  the  blue-jackets,  bless  you,  if  they  were  to 
catch  hold  of  me,  I should  run  off  and  leave  a can  of  flip  in  their 
hands;  now  what  do  you  think  of  that  7 

Gil.  Why  I think  of  the  two,  the  flip  would  be  far  the  most  desir- 
able ; but  if  you  will  go,  why,  a good  night  to  you,  and  a happy 
escape. 

Label.  All  the  same  thanks  to  you  for  your  intelligence ; press  mo, 
bless  you  they’d  sooner  take  my  physic  than  me:  no,  no,  I’m  a privi- 
leged man — good-night,  good-night.  [Exit,  r. 

Gil.  That  fellow  has  killed  more  people  than  ever  I saw  ; how  he 
looks  his  trade ; whenever  I behold  him,  he  appears  to  me  like  a 
long-necked  pint  bottle  of  rhubarb,  to  be  taken  at  three  draughts ; 
but  I must  put  all  things  to  rights — here’s  my  master  and  Miss  Lucy 
will  be  here  in  a minute ; the  house  is  full  of  customers,  and  it 
threatens  to  be  a boisterous  night. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


11 


Enter  Reef,  disguised  in  a large  great  coat,  l. 

Reef.  I say  young  man,  [Gilbert  starts ,]  why  what  are  you  start- 
ing at  ] 

Gil.  Nothing — only  at  first  I didn’t  know  whether  it  was  a man  or 
a bear. 

Reef.  Indeed — and  which  do  you  think  it  is  now  'l 

Gil.  Why,  upon  my  word,  its  a very  nice  distinction  ; I can’t  judge 
Very  well,  so  I’ll  take  you  at  your  own  word. 

Reef.  I’ve  a little  business  here  with  a gentleman ; do  you  know 
one  Mr.  Gwinett  1 

Gil.  Gwinett ! what,  Ambrose  Gwinett  1 

Reef.  The  same. 

Gil.  Know  him ! — I believe  I do — a very  fine,  noble  spirited, 

Reef.  Aye,  that’s  enough  ; I want  to  see  him — he's  in  the  house. 

Gil.  No,  indeed. 

Reef.  Would  you  tell  me  a lie  now  1 

Gil.  Yes  I would,  if  I thought  it  would  answer  any  right  purpose 
I tell  you  he’s  not  in  the  house — and  pray  who  are  you  1 

Reef.  Who  am  1 1 why — I’m — I’m — an  honest  man. 

Gil.  Aye,  that’s  so  general  a character ; couldn’t  you  descend  a 
little  to  particulars  1 

Reef.  I’ve  a letter  to  Mr.  Gwinett — its  of  great  consequence. 

Gil.  Who  does  it  come  from  1 

Reef.  The  writer. 

Gil.  Now  it  strikes  me  that  this  letter  contains  some  mischief. 

Reef.  Why  1 

Gil.  Because  its  brought  by  so  black  looking  a postman. 

Reef.  Will  you  deliver  itl  if,  as  you  say,  he’s  not  here,  when  he 
comes  1 

Gil.  Deliver  it  1 why  I don’t  mind,  but  if  you’ve  any  tricks  you 
know. 

Reef.  Tricks,  you  lubber,  give  him  the  letter,  and  no  more  palaver. 

[ Going. 

Gil.  Here.  [Reef  returns .]  No — no  matter — I thought  you  had 
left  your  civility  behind  you. 

Reef  Umph  ! [Exit,  r. 

Gil.  I warrant  me,  that’s  a fellow  that  never  passes  a rope  maker’s 
shop  without  feeling  a crick  in  the  neck. 

Enter  Lucy,  l. 

Lucy.  Oh,  Gilbert! 

Gil.  How  now,  Miss  Lucy,  you  seem  a little  frightened  or  so  1 

Lucy.  Oh,  no — not  frightened,  only  hurried  a little — is  my  uncle  in 
the  house  1 

Gil.  Oh,  yes — and  has  been  asking  for  you  these  dozen  times, — 
here,  by-the-by,  is  a letter  for — but  mum — here  comes  master. 

Enter  Mr.  Collins,  l. 

Col.  Well,  Lucy  child,  where  hast  been  all  day,  I havn’t  caught  s 
dance  of  you  since  last  night — what  have  you  got  there,  Gilbert  1 


12 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Gil.  Where,  sirl 

Col.  Why,  there  in  your  hand — that  letter. 

Gil.  Oh — aye — it  is  a letter. 

Col.  For  me  1 

Gil.  No,  sir — it’s  for  master  Ambrose  Gwinett. 

Col.  Give  it  to  me — I expect  him  here  to-night. 

Lucy.  Expect  master  Ambrose  here  to-night,  uncle  1 

Col.  Aye,  standing  at  the  door  just  now,  his  uncle  told  me  that  he 
expected  him  at  Deal  to-day,  but  being  compelled  to  be  from  home 
until  to-morrow,  he  had  left  word  that  master  Ambrose  should  put 
up  here,  and  asked  me  to  make  room  for  him. 

Gil.  What  here,  master  1 why  there’s  not  a corner — not  a single 
corner  to  receive  the  visit  of  a cat — the  house  is  full  to  the  very 
chimney  pots. 

Col.  Aye,  as  it  is  but  for  once,  we  must  contrive — let  me  see — as 
we  have  no  other  room,  master  Ambrose  can  take  part  of  mine — so 
bustle  Gilbert,  bustle,  and  see  to  it. 

Gil.  Yes,  sir,  yes.  [Aside.]  I’m  sorry  master’s  got  that  letter 
though  ; it  was  an  ugly  postman  that  brought  it,  and  it  can’t  be  good. 

[Exit,  l. 

Col.  Now,  Lucy,  that  we  are  together.  I would  wish  tc  have  some* 
talk  with  you.  You  know,  girl,  I love  you,  as  though  you  were  my 
own,  and  were  sorrow  or  mischance  to  light  upon  you,  I think  ’twould 
go  nigh  to  break  my  heart.  Now  answer  me  with  candor — you  know 
Grayling — honest  Ned  Grayling  1 why,  what  do  you  turn  so  pale  at  1 

Lucy.  Oh  ! uncle,  I beseech  you,  name  him  not. 

Col.  Tut — tut — this  is  all  idle  and  girlish — the  man  loves  you, 
Lucy. 

Lucy.  Loves  me  ! 

Col.  Aye ; Ned  is  not  so  sprightly  and  trim  a lad  as  many,  but  he 
hath  that  which  makes  all  in  a husband,  girl — he  has  a sound  heart 
and  a noble  spirit. 

Lucy.  Possibly,  I do  not  know. 

Col.  But  you  do  know,  and  so  does  all  the  town  know  ; come,  be 
just  to  him  if  you  cannot  love  him  ; but  for  my  part,  I see  not  what 
should  prevent  you  becoming  his  wife. 

Lucy.  His  wifel  oh,  uncle,  if  you  have  the  least  love— the  least 
regard  for  me,  speak  no  more  upon  this  theme — at  least  for  the 
present.  I will  explain  all  to  morrow,  will  prove  to  you  that  my 
aversion  is  not  the  result  of  idle  caprice,  but  of  feelings  which  you 
yourself  must  sanction.  In  the  mean  while  be  assured  I would  rather 
go  down  into  my  grave,  than  wed  with  such  a man  as  Grayling. 

Col.  Eh  ! why — what’s  all  this  1 Grayling  has  not — if  he  has — 

Lucy.  No,  no,  it  is  I who  am  to  blame,  for  speaking  thus  strongly 
—wait,  dearest  uncle — wait  till  to-morrow. 

Col.  Well,  as  it  is  not  long,  and  the  time  will  be  slept  out,  1 will, — ■ 
but  take  heed,  Lucy,  and  let  not  a foolish  distaste  prejudice  you 
against  a worthy  and  honorable  man. 

Enter  Amrose  Gwinett  and  Gilbert,  l. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


13 


Gwin.  Your  servant,  master  Collins — I must,  I find,  be  your  tenant 
for  the  night. 

Col.  And  shall  be  welcome,  sir ; come,  Lucy,  Gilbert,  stir,  and  pre- 
pare supper;  there’s  a rough  night  coming  on  I fear,  and  you  might 
fare  worse,  master  Ambrose,  than  as  guest  at  the  Blake’s  Head — 
here,  by  the  way  is  a letter  for  you. 

[ Whilst  Gwinett  is  reading  the  letter , the  supper  table  is  arranged , 
and  Collins  sits  down  and  begins  counting  some  money. 

Gwin.  This  is  a most  mysterious  assignation.  [Reads.]  14  If  you 
are  a man,  you  will  not  fail  to  give  me  a meeting  at  twelve  outside 
the  house,  I have  to  unfold  a plot  to  you  which  concerns  not  you 
alone. — Yours,  a friend.”  [Whilst  Gilbert  and  Lucy  are  off  for 
provisions. ] Master  Collins,  I may  rise  to-morrow  morning  ere  any 
of  your  good  people  are  stirring,  you  will  therefore  not  be  surprised 
to  find  me  gone. 

Col.  But  why  so  early  1 

Gwin.  A little  appointment — I shall  return  to  breakfast. 

Col.  Then  go  out  by  the  back  gate , but  stop,  as  the  latch  is  broken 
in  the  inside,  you  had  better  take  this  knife  [giving  Gwinett  a clasp 
knife,]  to  lift  it ; we  shall  wait  breakfast  until  your  return. 

[Collins,  Gwinett,  and  Lucy,  seat  themselves  at  table.  Grayling 
enters,  takes  a chair , and  placing  it  between  Lucy  and  Gwinett, 
sits  down. 

Col.  How  now,  master  Grayling,  you  have  mistaken  the  room. 
Gray.  Mistaken — how  so  1 isn’t  this  the  Blake’s  Head  'l 
Col.  That  may  be  ; but  this  is  my  private  apartment. 

Gray.  Private ! then  what  does  he  here — Gilbert,  some  ale. 

Gwin.  [Aside.]  The  very  ruffian  I encountered  in  the  wood. 

Gray.  [To  Gwinett.]  What  are  you'looking  at  man!  I shall  pay 
my  score — aye,  every  farthing  o’t,  though  I may  not  dress  as  trimly 
as  some  folks. 

Col.  Grayling,  will  you  quit  the  room'* 

Gray.  No ! 

Col.  Then  expect  to  lose 

Gray.  Lose  ! and  what  can  I lose  1 hasn’t  he  all  that  I could  lose? 

Col.  What  do  you  mean  1 

Gray.  Ask  Lucy — the  wood,  Lucy,  the  wood. 

Gwin.  Wretch  ! dare  you  beneath  her  uncle’s  roof — 

Gray.  Dare  1 1 you  have  among  you  awakened  the  wolf  within 
my  heart,  and  beware  how  it  snaps. 

Col.  This  is  needless  ; good  Grayling  leave  us. 

Gray.  Good , and  you  think  I am  to  be  hushed  with  fair  words  like 
a child,  whilst  he,  that  thief,  for  he  has  stolen  from  me  all  that  made 
life  happy,  whilst  he  bears  away  Lucy  and  leaves  me  mad  and  broken 
nearted. 

Col.  He  bear  away  Lucy — you  are  deceived. 

Gray.  No,  you  are  deceived,  old  man — you  are  deceived  ; but  let 
to-morrow  show,  I’ll  not  ’cumber  your  room,  master  Collins  \ I leave 


14 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


It  to  more  gay  visitors  than  Ned  Grayling ; I leave  it  till  lo-morrow — 
good-night — good-night,  gay  master  Gwinett,  a pleasant  night’s  rest 
— ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! [Exit,  l. 

Lucy.  Dear  uncle,  is  not  this  sufficient  excuse  for  my  aversion. 

Col.  No  matter,  we’ll  talk  more  of  this  to-morrow.  Go  to  your 
chamber,  girl.  [Music. — Lucy  goes  off , r.]  And  now,  sir,  we  will  tc 
ours.  [Music. — Exeunt,  r. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Room  in  the  Blake's  Head. 

Enter  Gilbert,  with  lamp,  r. 

Gil.  Well,  I’ve  looked  all  through  the  house,  fastened  the  doors, 
hung  up  the  keys,  and  now  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  and  sleep 
until  called  up  by  the  cock.  Well  I never  saw  love  make  so  much 
alteration  in  any  poor  mortal  as  in  master  Grayling — he  used  to  be  a 
quiet,  plain  spoken  civil  fellow — but  now  he  comes  into  a house  like 
a hurricane.  I wonder  what  that  letter  was  about.  It  bothers  me 
strangely — well,  no  matter — I’ll  now  go  to  bed — I’ll  go  across  the 
stable  yard  to  my  loft,  and  sleep  so  fast  that  I’ll  get  ten  hours  into 

six.  [Exit,  l. 

Enter  Collins  from  c.  d.  in  flat. 

Col.  A plague  take  that  doctor,  he  has  bound  my  arm  up  rarely — 
scarcely  had  I got  into  bed,  than  the  bandage  falling  off,  the  blood 
gushed  freshly  from  the  wound ; if  I can  reach  Gilbert,  he  will  assist 
me  to  stop  it — or  stay,  had  I not  better  return  to  master  Gwinett, 
who  as  yet  knows  nothing  of  the  matter  'l  no,  I’ll  even  make  my  way 
to  Gilbert,  and  then  to  bed  again.  [Exit,  l. 

Enter  Gwinett,  from  door  in  flat. 

Gwin.  I have  armed  myself — and  am  determined  to  meet  the  ap- 
pointment ; if  there  be  any  foul  play  intended,  they  will  find  me  pre- 
pared, if  not,  the  precaution  is  still  a reasonable  one — the  latch  is 
broken,  said  the  landlord,  the  knife  however  will  stead  me.  [Exit,  r. 

[Collins  cries  without,  “ Murder ! murder  l within — Lucy!  Gilbert! 

murder!  murder!" — Lucy  screams  without,  and  rushes  through 

door  in  flat,  then  runs  on  exclaiming — 

Lucy.  Oh,  heaven ! my  uncle’s  murdered ! 

Servants  and,  others  run  on,  R. 

Omnes.  What  say  you,  murdered ! where  1 — how  1 

Lucy.  I know  not — hearing  his  cries,  I rushed  into  his  room — he 
was  not  there,  but  his  bed  was  steeped  in  blood. 

Enter  Grayling  and  Gilbert,  l. 

Gray.  What  cries  are  these  1 master  Collins  murdered ! where  is 
Gwinett  1 

Lucy.  Alas ! oh,  heaven — he  is — 

Gray.  Ah  1 let  search  be  made. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


16 


Enter  Gwinett,  r. 

Gray.  He  is  the  assassin. 

Gwin.  Villain!  [Rushes  at  Grayling — they  struggle ; Grayling 
wrenches  a knife  from  Gwinett’s  grasp  ; his  coat  flies  open,  and  the 
handkerchief  stained^  with  blood,  falls  Out. 

Gray.  Ah  ! this  knife- 

Lucy.  It  is  my  uncle’s 

Gray.  Your  uncle’s — behold  the  murderer  ! 

Gwirett  stands  petrified  with  horror , Lucy  shrieks  and  turns  away 
from  him;  Gilbert  picks  up  the  handkerchief  stained  with  blood, 
and  holds  it  at  one  side  of  Gwinett,  whilst  Grayling  on  the  other, 
points  to  the  knife  with  looks  of  mingled  detestation  and  revenge. 
— Characters  form  themselves  at  back,  $c. 

END  OF  ACT  I. 


AC  T II. 

SCENE  I. — Outside  view  of  the  Sessions'  House. 

Enter  Gilbert  and  Jenny,  l. 

Gil.  Come  along,  Jenny,  come  along ; it  will  be  all  over  in  a few 
minutes. 

Jenny.  Oh  what  a shocking  thing ! Master  Gwinett  tried  for  mur- 
der— I’d  lay  my  life  he’s  innocent. 

Gil.  Why  I don’t  know  what  to  think ; matters  stand  very  strong 
against  him — but  then  he  looks  as  freshly,  and  speaks  as  calmly — no, 
he  can’t  be  guilty — and  yet  the  knife,  and  my  master’s  bed  filled  with 
blood — and  then,  where  is  my.  poor  master  1 every  search  has  been 
made  for  the  body,  and  all  in  vain.  If  Gwinett  be  guilty 

Enter  Grayling  frorm  Sessions'  House,  l. 

Gray.  If  he  be  guilty — who  can  doubt  his  guilt  1 

Gil.  Those,  master  Grayling,  who  do  not  let  their  hate  stand  in  the 
light  of  their  clear  judgment.  This  is,  I warrant  me,  a rare  day  of 
triumph  for  you. 

Gray.  Aye,  and  ought  to  be  to  every  honest  man;  ’tis  for  rogues 
to  be  sad  when  rogues  are  caught. 

Gil  I dare  say  now  you  think  this  will  serve  your  turn  with  Miss 
Lucy. 

Gray.  Perhaps  I do,  and  what  then! 

Gil.  What  then  ! why,  then,  you  overcount  your  profits.  Take  my 
simple  word  for  it,  she  hates  you  ! hates  you  as  much  as  she  loves 


16 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Gray.  Her  uncle’s  murderer,  e!i  1 are  not  those  the  words  1 With 
all  my  heart,  I would  rather  have  the  deadly  hate  of  Lucy  Fairlove, 
than  the  softest  pity  of  Lucy  Gwinett.  Oh  ! I thought  there  was  a 
world  of  mischief  under  the  smooth  face  of  the  assassin  ; had  lie 
struck  for  a deep  revenge  I could  have  pardoned  him,  for  it  might 
have  been  my  own  fate — but  to  murder  a man  for  gold  ! for  a few 
pieces  of  shining  dross — ’tis  a crime  to  feel  one  touch  of  pity  for  so 
base  a miscreant. 

Gil.  Bless  me  ! ’tis  all  like  a dream  ; ’twas  but  yesterday,  and  we 
were  all  as  happy  as  the  best. 

Gray.  Aye,  it  was  but  yesterday  when  the  gay  trim  master  Ambrose 
scorned  and  contemned  me ! but  yesterday,  and  Lucy  hung  upon  his 
arm  ! and  to-day — ha!  ha!  ha! — I stood  against  him  at  the  fatal  har- 
as I passed,  his  brow  blackened  and  his  lips  worked — his  eyes  shot 
the  lightninga  of  hate  upon  me — at  that  moment  my  heart  beat  with 
a wild  delight,  and  I smiled  to  see  how  the  criminal  shrunk  as  I told 
the  tale  that  damned  him — to  see  him  recoil  as  though  every  word  I 
uttered  fell  like  a withering  fire  upon  his  guilty  heart.  [A  scream  is 
heard  from  Ihe  Sessions’  House.]  Ah  ! the  trial  is  ended. 

A Neighbor  comes  from  the  Sessions’  House — Grayling  runs  to  him. 
Say — the  prisoner 

Neigh.  Guilty. 

Gray.  And  no  hopes  of  mercy  1 

Neigh.  None. 

Gray.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha ! 

Music. — Enter  Neighbors  from  the  Court  with  Officers  guarding 
Gwinett,  l. 

Gwin.  Good  people  there  are  I see  many  among  you  whose  tears 
bespeak  that  you  think  me  guiltless — may  my  soul  never  reach  yon 
happy  sphere,  if  by  the  remotest  thought  it  ever  yearned  for  blood  : 
— circumstances — damning  circumstances  have  betrayed  me  : I con- 
demn not  my  judges — farewell,  for  the  few  hours  I dwell  among  me  t, 
let  me  have  your  prayers;  and  when  no  more,  let  me,  I pray,  live  in 
your  charitable  thoughts.  When  time  (for  I feel  it  one  day  will)  shall 
reveal  my  innocence — should  ought  remain  of  this  poor  frame,  let  it 
I beseech  you,  lie  next  my  mother’s  grave,  and  in  my  epitaph  cleanse 
my  memory  from  the  festering  stain  of  blood — farewell, — Lucy ! 

Lucy.  [Rushing  on  and  falling  into  his  arms.]  Ambrose — 

Offi.  [Aside  to  Grayltng.J  Grayling,  you,  as  smith  for  the  prison, 
must  measure  the  culprit  for  bis  fetters. 

Gray.  Measure”? 

Offi.  Aye  ! it  is  the  sentence  of  the  court  that  the  prisoner  be  hung 
in  chains. 

Gray.  Indeed ! 

Offi.  The  office  is  doubtless  an  ungrateful  one ; being  a fellow 
townsman  you  needs  must  feel  for  him. 

Gray.  No — no — yes — yes — but  duty  you  know,  sir,  [seeing  Lucy 
still  in  Gwinett’s  arms.]  but  if  they  stand  leave-taking  all  day,  I 
shall  have  no  time  to  finish  the  work.  [Officer  motions  Gwinett. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


17 


Gwin.  I attend  you,  sir,  farewell  Lucy — heaven  bless  and  protect 
you.  [Rushes  off  followed  by  Officers , $c.,  p.  s. 

Lucy.  Gone,  to  prison — death — no  they  cannot,  dare  not  fulfil  the 
dreadful  sentence — he  is  innocent!  innocent  as  the  speechless  babe — 
the  whole  town  believes  him  guiltless — they  will  petition  for  him,  and 
if  there  be  mercy  upon  earth  he  must  yet  be  saved — [seeing  Gray- 
ling]— Grayling!  oh  Grayling — your  evidence  has  betrayed  him — but 
for  you  he  had  escaped — whilst  you  spoke — whilst  at  every  word  you 
nttered  my  blood  ran  cold  as  ice,  I prayed  (heaven  pardon  me)  prayed 
that  you  might  be  stricken  dum ; but  he,  even  he  who  stood  pale  and 
withered  at  the  bar  must  have  fell,  far  above  you  as  man  above  a 
worm. 

Gray.  I spoke  the  truth,  the  truth  of  facts. 

Lucy.  Yes,  but  urged  with  malice,  wholly  devilish — but  oh  Gray- 
ling— all  shall  be  forgiven — all  forgotten — strive  but  with  me  to 
awaken  mercy  in  the  hearts  of  his  judges — strive  but — ah  no — I 
see  in  that  stone-like  eye  and  sullen  lip,  that  the  corse  of  Ambrose 
(his  corse ! my  heart  will  burst)  that  to  you  his  death  knell  would  be 
music,  for  then  you  would  no  longer  fear  his  marriage  chimes. 

Gray.  I meddle  not  with  the  course  of  law,  Lucy  Fairlove. 

Lucy.  Hard-hearted  man — but  you  carry  with  you  your  own  tor- 
ment, a blighted  conscience — alas,  why  do  I stand  raving  to  this 
heartless  being — the  time  wears  on — to-morrow — oh  ! what  a world 
of  agony  is  in  that  word,  let  me  still  pronounce  it,  that  I may  cease- 
lessly labor  in  the  cause  of  misery — but  if  relentless  law  demands  its 
victim,  the  grave!  the  grave  ! be  then  my  place  of  rest.  [ Exit , r. 

Gray.  Oh  Lucy ! — what  a wretch  am  I,  to  stand  like  a heartless 
monster  unmoved  by  every  touch  of  pity — it  was  not  once  so — once — 
but  my  nature’s  changed,  all  feelings,  save  one,  are  withered ; love 
has  turned  to  hate,  a deep  and  settled  hate,  I feel  it  craving  for  its 
prey  ! now  to  let  it  feed  and  triumph  on  my  rival’s  pains  ! [Exit,  r. 

SCENE  II. — A view  of  the  country. 

Enter  Label,  l. 

Label.  So  far  safe ; egad  Gilbert’s  advice  was  not  altogether  un- 
necessary, for  I’ve  had  to  keep  up  a running  account  for  these  five 
miles — eh — what  a crowd  of  people  are  coming  here. 

Enter  1st  Villager,  r. 

Why,  my  friend,  you  seem  in  haste. 

lstf  Vil.  Haste  ! yes,  I wouldn’t  lose  the  sight  for  the  world. 

Label.  Sight ! what  sight  7 

l*i  Vil.  What,  don’t  you  know?  [Looks  at  him  contemptuously.] 
Then  my  service  to  yon.  [Exit,  l. 

Label.  This  is  highway  politeness,  and  to  a man  of  my  profession — 
eh  ! — thank  heaven  here  comes  one  of  the  other  sex — its  hard  if  I 
don’t  get  an  answer  now. 

Enter  Mary  Rosely,  r. 

Well  my  pretty  maid,  are  you  going  to  see  the  sight  1 


i8 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Mary.  The  sight ! oh,  bless  you,  sir, — no,  not  for  the  world. 

Label.  What,  then  you  have  no  curiosity. 

Mary.  Curiosity,  sir, — do  you  know  what  sight  it  is 

Label.  No,  will  you  tell  me  7 

Mary.  Why,  sir;  it’s— it’s — it’s  [sobbing,]  oh,  such  a good  young 
man. 

Ijabel  A good  young  man,  is  that  such  a sight  among  you  1 

Mary.  Oh,  no  sir — not  that — and  yet  there  was  nobody  but  loved 
him. 

Label.  Nobody  but  loved  him — i’faitli  if  they’ve  all  such  pretty 
faces  as  you,  he  must  have  had  a fine  time  of  it — but  what’s  the 
matter  with  him — is  he  going  to  be  married — is  he  dying — or  dead  'l 

Mary.  No,  sir.  not  yet. 

Label.  Well,  then,  never  take  on  so — he’ll  get  over  it. 

Mary.  Oh  no,  sir,  he’s  sure  to  die — the  judges  have  said  so. 

Label.  The  judges — what,  the  doctors ! ah,  my  dear,  I know,  by 
myself,  that  the  doctors  are  frequently  no  great  judges — what’s  his 
complaint  1 

Mary.  Complaint,  sir,  why  they  say  he’s  murdered  a man. 

Label.  Murdered  a man!  that’s  a fatal  disease  with  a vengeance. 

Mary.  But  it’s  false,  sir,  a wicked  falsehood — he  murder — why,  sir, 
he  was  the  best,  the  kindest  young  man  in  all  these  parts — there  was 
nobody  but  loved  poor  Ambrose 

Label.  Ambrose  ! why  you  don’t  mean  Ambrose  Gwinett ! 

Mary.  Oh  yes,  sir,  that’s  his  name. 

Label.  And  who  do  they  say  he’s  murdered  1 

Mary.  Master  Collins. 

Label.  Collins!  [aside,]  the  devil;  there  may  be  some  of  my  marks 
found  upon  him — and — and  what  have  they  done  with  the  body  1 

Mary.  That  can’t  be  found  any  where ! it’s  supposed  that  Ambrose 

no,  no,  not  Ambrose,  but  the  villains  that  did  the  horrid  act, 

threw  the  body  into  the  sea. 

Label.  Ah  ! very  likely — I begin  to  feel  very  uncomfortable — well, 
go  home,  my  good  girl,  go  home. 

Mary.  Home  ! no  that  I won’t ; I’ll  go  and  see  if  I can’t  comfort 
poor  Miss  Lucy.  [Exit,  l. 

Label.  I’m  puzzled,  the  body  not  to  be  found ; if  I go  and  tell  all 
that  I know — inform  the  judges  that  I bled  master  Collins,  perhaps 
they  may  secure  me,  and  by  some  little  trick  of  the  law,  make  me 
accompany  master  Gwinett — again,  allowing  I should  get  clear  off, 
the  tale  might  occasion  some  doubt  of  my  skill,  and  so  my  trade 
would  be  cut  up  that  way — no,  no,  better  as  it  is,  let  the  guilty  suffer, 
and  no  more  said  about  it — it  will  all  blow  over  in  a week  or  two. 
That  same  Gwinett,  for  all  he  used  to  laugh  and  joke  so  gaily,  had  I 
now  begin  to  remember  a kind  of  hanging  look — he  had  a strange, 
suspicious — but  bless  me  when  a man  falls  into  trouble,  how,  soon  we 
begin  to  iecollect  all  his  bad  qualities.  I declare  the  whole  country 
seems  in  a.  bustle — in  the  confusion  I may  get  off  without  notice — ’tis 
the  vvisest  course  and  when  wisdom  comes  hand-in-hand  with  profit, 
he’s  a fool  indeed  that  turns  his  back  upon  her.  [Exit.  r. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


10 


Enter  Blackthorn  and  Will  Ash. 

Black.  Tut,  tut — all  trifling  I tell  you — all  the  fears  ol  a foolish 
girl — come,  come,  Will  Ash,  be  a man. 

Ash.  That’s  what  I would  be,  master  Blackthorn,  but  yc  a will  not 
iet  me — I would  be  a man,  and  return  this  same  bag  of  money. 

Black.  And  get  a prison  for  your  pains. 

Ash.  But  the  truth — 

Black.  The  truth ! it  is  too  dangerous  a commodity  for  us  to  deal 
in  at  present — we  know  we  picked  it  up  a few  paces  from  the  Blakes’ 
Head,  doubtless  dropped  from  Collins  in  his  struggle  with  the  mur- 
derers— but  how  are  we  to  make  that  appear— our  characters,  Will 
Ash,  are  not  altogether  as  clear  as  yonder  white  cloud,  they  are 
blackened  a little  ever  since  that  affair  with  the  Revenue  Officers — 
you  know  we  are  marked  men. 

Ash.  Yes,  but  unjustly  so  ; lam  conscious  of  my  innocence. 

Black.  Yes,  and  a man  may  be  hanged  in  that  consciousness — be 
hanged  as  I say,  and  leave  the  consciousness  of  his  innocene,  as  food 
and  raiment  for  his  helpless  family. 

Ash.  Oh ! 

Black.  You  are  in  no  situation,  Will  Ash,  to  study  niceties — when 
your  children  shriek  “ Bread  ” within  your  ears,  is  it  a time  for  a 
man  to  be  splitting  hairs,  and  weighing  grains  of  sand  ? 

Ash.  Do  not,  Blackthorn,  do  not  speak  thus ; for  in  such  a case  it 
is  not  reason,  but  madness  that  decides. 

Black.  Even  as  you  will,  I speak  for  your  own  good. 

Ash.  I am  assured  of  it,  and  could  I satisfy  myself 

Black.  Satisfy  ! why  you  may  be  satisfied — the  men  who  killed 
Collins,  doubtless  did  it  for  his  gold — they  were  disappointed,  and 
instead  of  the  money  going  to  villains  and  blood-shedders,  it  has 
fallen  into  the  htands  of  honest  men. 

Ash.  Honest— aye,  if  we  return  it. 

Black.  No,  then  it  would  be  fools,  upon  whom  fortune  had  thrown 
away  her  favors — Collins  is  dead ! mountains  of  gold  could  not  put 
life — no,  not  even  into  his  little  finger — what  good  then  can  come  of 
returning  the  bag,  and  what  harm  to  the  dead  or  to  the  world,  by  our 
keeping  it  ? 

Ash.  You  speak  rightly,  a little  reasoning 

Black.  Aye,  a little  reasoning  as  you  say,  does  much  in  such  mat- 
ters. 

Ash.  And  yet  the  greatest  rogues  may  commit  crimes  with  as  fair 
a show  ot  necessity — ’tis  not  Blackthorn — -’tis  not  in  the  nature  of 
guilt  to  want  an  excuse. 

Black.  Away  with  all  this— will  you  be  a man  ? 

Ash.  [After  a moment's  struggle.]  I will — come  Avliat  will,  I’ll 
return  the  gold — farewell.  [is  going  off  when  child  runs  in , r. 

Child.  Oh  father ! father,  all  is  lost. 

Ash.  Lost? 

Child.  Yes,  our  cruel  landlord  has  seized  on  every  thing,  mother 
and  my  little  sisters,  Jane  and  Ann,  all  driven  out,  must  have  slept  in 
lie  fields,  if  farmer 


20 


AMBROSE  G WIN  EXT. 


Ash.  Oh,  heavens . my  wife  and  children  homeless,  starving  out- 
casts — and  I no  help 

Black.  No  help!  yes  the  bag — the  gold! 

Ash.  Ah ! — yes  ! — it  must,  it  shall  be  done ! the  husband  and  the 
parent’s  tugging  at  my  heart — oh  ! be  witness  heaven ! and  pardon, 
pardon  the  frailties  of  the  man  in  the  agony  of  the  father — come, 
child,  your  mother  and  your  sisters,  though  the  trial  be  a hard  one, 
yet  shall  smile  upon  the  oppressor.  [Exeunt,  r. 

SCENE  III. — Inside  of  Prison. 

Enter  Grayling  ; he  has  with  him  an  iron  rod. 

Gray.  So  now  for  my  task ; this  is  a day  of  triumph  for  me ; I 
could  have  dressed  myself  as  for  a holiday  ; this  Gvvinett  once  dead 
who  knows  how  time  may  work  upon  Lucy ; perhaps  I had  rather 
the  gang  had  seized  and  torn  the  lad  away — but  they  deceived  me — 
they  took  my  money  for  the  service,  and  have  never  since  shewn 
themselves ; after  all  it  may  be  better  as  it  is — Gwinett  might  have 
regained  his  liberty — have  returned — there’s  no  marrying  with  the 
dead — no,  ’tis  best — much  the  best. 

Enter  Bolt,  the  Gaoler , l. 

A good-day  to  you,  master  Bolt. 

Bolt.  A good-day.  You  are  late,  master  Grayling — you  will  have 
scarcely  sufficient  time  to  perform  your  task. 

Gray.  Oh,  plenty — 1 have  an  old  set  of  chains  in  hand ; an  hour’s 
work  will  make  them  fit  for  any  body — so  let  me  at  once  measure  the 
prisoner. 

Bolt.  The  prisoner ! do  you  not  know  that  there  are  two  to  suffer  1 

Gray.  Two  ! 

Bolt.  Aye  ; we  have  to  day  received  an  order  that  “ Mad  George," 
as  he  is  called,  who  was  last  Sessions  convicted  for  shooting  an 
Exciseman,  is  to  suffer  with  poor  Ambrose  Gwinett. 

Gray.  Poor  Ambrose  Gwinett — you  are  mightily  compassionate, 
master  Bolt. 

Bolt.  Why,  for  the  matter  of  that,  if  a man’s  a gaoler,  I see  no 
reason  why  his  heart  should  be  of  a piece  with  the  prison  wall. 

Gray.  But  is  he  not  an  assassin  ? — a midnight  murderer'? 

Bolt.  True;  and  yet  I cannot  but  doubt — I do  not  think  a man  with 
blood  upon  his  head,  could  sleep  so  soundly  and  smile  so  in  his 
slumbers,  as  does  master  Gwinett ; the  whole  country  feels  for  him. 

Gray.  Aye,  it  is  the  fashion  now-a-days — let  a knave  only  rob  an 
orchard,  and  he’s  whipped  and  cried  at  for  a villain — let  him  spill 
blood,  and  its  marvellous  the  compassion  that  awaits  him. 

Bolt.  Why,  how  now,  master  Grayling  1 once  you  would  not  have 
talked  in  this  manner — you  had  one  time  a heart  as  tender  as  a girl’s 
— I have  seen  you  drop  a tear  upon  the  hand  of  a prisoner,  as  you 
have  fitted  the  iron  upon  it.  Methinks  you  are  strangely  changed  of 
late. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


21 


Gray.  I am — no  matter  for  that — let  me  to  my  work,  for  time 
speeds  in. 

Boli.  Well,  you  can  first  begin  with  mad  George. 

Gray.  And  why  not  with  Gwinett  1 — with  Gwinett,  I say,  the  mur- 
derer 1 

Bolt  He’s  engaged,  at  present,  taking  leave  of  poor  Lucy  Fairlove; 
eh  ! why  what’s  the  matter  with  you  1 Why  you  start  and  shake  as 
though  it  was  you  that  was  going  to  suffer. 

Gray.  Well,  well,  delay  no  longer. 

Bolt.  [Calls  without. J Holloa!  Tom,  bring  poor  George  hither. 
Poor  fellow,  he  had  begun  to  hope  for  pardon  just  as  the  warrant 
came  down. 

Enter  George  and  Turnkey,  r. 

Geo.  Now,  what  further,  good  master  Bolt  1 

Bolt.  Why,  there  is  another  little  ceremony — you  know  the  sentence 
is 

Geo.  Aye,  I remember,  to  be  placed  as  a scarecrow  to  my  brother 
smugglers, — well,  no  matter,  they’ll  let  me,  I hope,  hang  over  the 
beach  with  the  salt  spray  sometimes  dashing  upon  me.  and  the  sea- 
gull screaming  around. 

Gray.  Give  me  your  hand,  friend ; so,  [shakes  hands,]  this  is  an 
ugly  task  of  mine,  but  you  bear  no  malice  1 

Geo.  I never  knew  it  when  I was  a free  and  happy  man,  and  should 
never  feel  it  in  my  dying  hour — and  to  prove  to  you  that  the  fear  of 
death  has  not  wasted  my  powers, — there,  bend  that  arm  before  you 
measure  it — stronger  men  than  you,  I take  it,  have  tried  in  vain. 
[Grayling  takes  hold  of  George’s  arm,  and  with  a slight  effort,  bends 
it.]  Ah!  there  was  but  one  man  -who  could  do  this — he  who  did  it 
when  a boy — surely  you  are  not — yes,  it  is — Grayling  ! 

Gray.  Eli!  George — George  Wildrove — my  earliest,  my  best  of 
friends.  [They  embrace.]  Oh!  and  to  meet  you  now,  and  in  such  a 

place — and  1 — the  wretch  employed  to 

Geo.  Nay,  Grayling,  this  is  weak — your  task  is  not  a free  one,  ’tis, 
I know,  imposed  upon  you — to  the  work,  and  whilst  you  measure  the 
limbs  of  mad  George,  the  felon,  think  not,  for  I would  not  think  of 
him — think  not  of  George  Wildrove,  the  school-boy. 

[Mustc. — Grayling,  after  a struggle,  advances  to  George — he  turns 
up  one  of  his  sleeves,  and  is  about  to  measure  the  arm,  when  his 
eye  falls  upon  George’s  wrist. 

Gray.  [Starting  back  with  horror.]  No,  no,  not  if  these  prison 
walls  were  turned  to  gold,  and  I by  fulfilling  this  hateful  task,  might 
become  the  whole  possessor,  I would  not  do  it — as  I have  a soul,  I 
would  not. 

Geo.  What  new  alarm  7 What  holds  you  1 
Gray.  Your  wrist,  George. 

Geo.  Well  1 

Gray.  Do  you  not  see  'l 
Geo.  What  1 


22 


AMBROSE  G WIN  EXT. 


Gray.  That  scar — .n  that  scar  I read  the  preservation  of  my  life- 
alas  ! now  worthless — can  I forget  that  the  knife  aimed  at  my  heart 
struck  thsre — there — - 

Geo.  Oh,  a schoolboy  frolic,  go  on,  good  Ned. 

Gray.  Never  ! Oh,  George,  I am  a wretch,  a poor  forlorn  discarded 
wretch — the  earth  has  lost  its  sweetnesss  to  me — I am  hopeless,  aim- 
less— I had  thought  my  heart  was  wholly  changed  to  stone — I find 
there  is  one — one  pulse  left,  that  beats  with  gratitude,  with  more  than 
early  friendship. 

Bolt.  Come,  master  Grayling,  you  know  there  is  another  prisoner. 

Gray.  Ah !,  I had  forgotten — gaoler,  chains  for  this  man,  to  be  made 
an  Emperor,  I could  not  forge — if  you  will,  say  so  to  the  governor ; 
for  the  other  prisoner,  I’ll  work — oh.  how  I’ll  toil — but  come  a moment, 
George — let  my  heart  give  a short  time  to  friendship,  ere  again  ’tis 
vielded  up  to  hate.  [Exeunt  Grayling  and  George,  l. 

Enter  Ambrose  Gwinett,  r. 

Gwin.  I feel  as  if  within  these  two  days,  infirm  old  age  had  crept 
upon  me — my  blood  is  chilled,  and  courses  through  fny  veins  with 
lazy  coldness — my  brain  is  stunned — my  eyes  discern  not  clearly — my 
very  hair  feels  grey  and  blasted  ; alas ! ’tis  no  wonder,  I have  within 
these  few  hours  been  hurled  from  a throne  of  earthly  happiness — 
snatched  from  the  regions  of  ideal  bliss — and  cast,  bound  and  fettered 
within  a prison’s  walls — and  my  name — my  innocent  name,  stamped 
in  the  book  of  infamy — oh  ! was  man  to  contemplate  at  one  view  the 
evil  he’s  to  suffer,  madness  would  seize  on  half  his  kind — but  misery, 
day  by  day  works  on,  laying  at  intervals  such  weights  upon  us,  which, 
if  placed  at  once  would  crush  us  out  of  life. — Ah ! the  gaoler  ! 

Bolt.  A good  day  to  you.  master.  Ambrose. 

Gwin.  “Good-day”  friend!  let  good  days  pass  between  those 
happy  men  who  freely  may  exchange  them  beneath  the  eye  of  heaven 
“ Good-day”  to  a wretch  like  me  ! it  has  a sound  of  mockery. 

Bolt.  And  yet  believe  me,  sir,  I meant  not  so. 

Gwin.  I am  sure  you  did  not.  It  was  my  own  waywardness  tha; 
misconstrued  you — I am  sorry— pardon  me,  good  man — and  if  you 
would  yield  a favor  to  a hapless  creature,  now  standing  on  the  brink 
of  the  grave,  leave  me — I fain  would  strive  to  look  with  calmness  into 
that  wormy  bed  wherein  I soon  must  lie. 

Bolt.  Poor  fellow,  he  forgets — but  good  master  Gwinett — 

Gwin.  Well — be  quick — for  my  minutes  are  counted — I must  play 
the  miser  with  them. 

Bolt.  Do  you  not  remember  the  sentence  ? 

Gwin.  Remember! 

Bolt.  But  the  whole  of  it? 

Gwin.  The oh,  heavens,  the  thoughts  like  fire  flash  into  my 

brain.  I had  forgotten — there  is  no — no  grave  for  me. 

j Halt  Poor  fellow,  I could  almost  cry  to  look  at  him. 

Gwin.  Well,  what  does  it  matter;  it  is  but  in  imagination — nothing 
more. 

Bolt.  That’s  right — come,  look  boldly  on  it. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


2a 


Gwin.  Where  is  the  place,  that — my  heart  swells  as  it  would  burst 
its  prison — the — you  understand. 

Bolt.  Why,  at  the  corner  of  the  meadow,  just  by  One-Tree  Farm. 

Gwin.  [ With  great  passion .]  What ! — at — oh  ! — if  there  be  one 
touch  of  mercy  in  my  judges’  hearts,  I beseech,  [throws  himself  at 
Bolt' s feet,]  I implore  you — any  other  spot  but  there — there — 

Bolt.  And  why  not  there,  master  Ambrose  1 

Gwin.  Why  not! — the  cottage  wherein  I was  born  Loksout  on  the 
place — many  a summer’s  day,  when  a child,  a little  happy  child, 
close  by  my  mother’s  side,  my  hand  in  her’s,  I have  wandered  there 
picking  the  wild  flowers  springing  up  around  us — oh!  what  a multi- 
tude of  recollections  crowd  upon  me — that  meadow — many  a summer’s 
night  have  I with  my  little  sisters,  sat  waiting  my  father’s  coming — 
and  when  he  turned  that  hedge,  to  see  his  eyes,  how  they  kindled  up, 
when  the  happy  shout  burst  from  his  children’s  lips — ah  ! his  eyes 
are  now  fixed  closely  on  me — and  that  shout  is  ringing  in  my  ears  ! 

Bolt.  Come,  come,  be  more  composed. 

Gwin.  Ther^I  cannot  die  in  peace  ; in  one  brief  minute  I should 
see  all  the  actions  of  my  infant  life,  as  in  a glass — there,  there,  I can- 
not die — is  there  no  help  1 

Bolt.  I’m  afraid,  sir,  none:  the  judges  have  quitted  the  town  but 
banish  these  thoughts  from  your  mind — here  comes  one  that  needs 
support  even  whilst  she  strives  to  comfort  others. 

Enter  Lucy,  r. 

Lucy.  Oh!  dearest  Ambrose — is  there  no  hopel 

Gwin.  Hope,  Lucy,  none — my  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  once  happy 
and  respected  Gwinett,  will  ’ere  sunset  die  the  death  of  a felon  ! a 
murderer!  a murderer! — Oh,  heavens!  to  be  pointed,  gazed  at 
executed  as  the  inhuman,  heartless  assassin — the  midnight  blood- 
shedder ! 

Lucy.  Bloodshedder ! oh,  Gwinett. 

Gwin.  But  tell  me,  dearest  Lucy,  what  say  my  fellow  townsmen  of 
the  hapless  Ambrose ; do  they  all,  all  believe  me  guilty  I 

Lucy.  Oh,  no — some  there  are  who,  when  your  name  is  mentioned, 
sigh  and  breathe  a prayer  for  your  deliverance, — and  some 

Gwin.  Aye,  there  it  is,  they  class  me  with  those  desperate  wretches, 
who — oh,  would  the  hour  were  come — I shall  go  mad — become  a 
raving  maniac : what  a life  had  my  imagination  pictured  ! blessed 
with  thee  Lucy.  I had  hoped  to  travel  onward,  halting  at  the  grave, 
an  old  grey  headed  happy  man,  and  now,  the  scaffold — the  execu- 
tioner— can  I think  upon  them,  and  not  feel  my  heart  grow  palsied, 
my  sinews  fall  away,  and  my  life’s  breath  ebb — but  no,  I think,  and 
still  I live  to  suffer. 

Lucy.  There  yet  remains  a hope — your  judges  are  petitioned,  they 
may  relent — then  years  of  happiness  may  yet  be  ours. 

Gwin.  Happiness — alas,  no;  my  very  dreams  are  but  a counter- 
part of  my  waking  horrors.  Last  night,  harrassed,  I threw  me  down 
to  rest — a leaden  slumber  fell  upon  me,  and  then  I dreamt,  Lucy,  that 
thou  and  I had  at  the  altar  sworn  a lasting  faith. 


24 


AMR  ROSE  GWINETT. 


Lucy.  Did  you  so?  Ambrose  did  you  so? — Oil!  ’tis  a happy 
presage ; the  dream  was  sent  from  heaven  to  hid  you  not  despair. 

Gwin.  It  was,  indeed,  a warning  dream;  hear  the  end.  We  were 
at  the  altar’s  foot,  girt  round  by  happy  friends,  and  thou  smilest — oh. 
my  heart  heat  quickly  with  transporting  joy,  as  with  one  hand  clasp- 
ing thine,  I strove  to  place  the  ring  upon  thy  finger — it  fell — and 
ringing  on  the  holy  floor,  shivered  like  glass  into  a thousand  atoms — 
astonished,  I gazed  a moment  on  the  glittering  fragments, — but  when 
1 raised  my  head,  thou  wert  not  to  he  found — the  place  had  changed 
— the  bridal  train  had  vanished,  and  in  its  stead,  I saw  surrounding 
thousands,  who,  with  upturned  eyes,  gazed  like  spectres  on  me — I 
looked  for  the  priest,  and  in  his  place  stood  glaring  at  me  with  savage 
joy,  the  executioner — I strove  to  burst  away — my  arms  were  bound — 
I cast  my  eyes  imploringly  to  heaven — and  there  above  me  was  the 
beam — the  fatal  beam — I felt  my  spirit  strangling  in  my  throat,  ’twas 
but  a moment — all  was  dark. 

Lucy.  Oh  ! heavens. 

Gwin.  Such  was  the  forerunner  of  the  coming  horror — so  will  ten 
thousand  glut  their  eyes  upon  my  misery — and  then  tie  hangman — 

[Lucy,  who  during  the  former  and  present  speech  of  Gwinett.  has 
been  growing  gradually  insensible;  here  shrieks  out,  and  rushes 
to  him. 

Lucy.  Oh  ! speak  it  not — think  it  not — my  heart  is  broken.  [Falls 
into  his  arms. 

Gwin.  Wretch!  fool  that  I am,  thus  forgetful  in  my  miseries  tc 
torture  this  sweet  sufferer. 

Lucy.  [ Recovering .]  There  is  then  no  hope — no,  think  not  to  deceive 
me,  the  terrible  certainty  frowns  upon  me,  and  every  earthly  joy  fades 
beneath  the  gloom  ! I shall  not  long  survive  you — a short  time  to 
waste  myself  in  tears  upon  your  grave. 

Gwin.  [Aside.]  My  grave! — oh  madness!  even  this  last  solace  is 
deprived  me — she’ll  never  weep  o’er  me — uever  pluck  the  weeds 
from  off  my  tomb — but  if  she’d  seek  the  corse  of  Gwinett — there ! 
hung  round  with  rattling  chains,  and  shaking  in  the  wind,  a loath- 
some spectacle  to  all  men — there  she  must,  shuddering,  say  her  fitful 
prayer.  Oh ! I’m  prenzied,  mad, — Lucy  thus  distracted  locked  in 
each  other’s  arms,  we’ll  seek  for  death.  [ They  embrace. 

Music. — Enter  Bolt  and  Grayling,  r.;  Grayling  on  seeing  Gwinett 
and  Lucy,  is  about  to  rush  down  upon  them , when  he  is  held  back 
by  Bolt  : he  at  length  approaches  Gwinett,  who,  on  beholding  him , 
staggers  back  with  horror — Grayling  folds  his  arms  and  looks  at 
Gwinett  with  an  eye  of  malice. 

Gwin.  Wretch!  monster!  what  do  you  here?  come  you  to  glut 
your  vengeance  on  my  dying  pangs  ? 

Gray.  Were  there  no  wretches — no  monsters — no  bloodsuckers, 
look  you,  there  need  no  prison  smiths ; chains  and  fetters  are  not  made 
for  honest  men. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


25 


Lucy.  Grayling,  if  e’er  you  felt  one  touch  of  pity,  in  mercy  leave 
us,  cheat  me  not  of  one  moment,  with — 

[Lucy  lifts  her  hands  imploringly  to  Grayling — his  eye  rests  upon 
the  ring  on  her  finger. ] 

Gray.  [ Passionately .]  Thy  husband  1 

Lucy.  Aye,  my  husband,  I swore  to  be  his  and  none  but  his — my 
oath  was  taken  when  the  world  looked  brightly  on  us  both — the  world 
changed,  but  my  oath  remained  ; and  here,  but  an  hour  since,  within 
a prison’s  walls,  with  none  but  bard-faced  pittiless  gaolers  to  behold 
our  wretched  nuptials  ; here  I kept  my  vow — here  I gave  my  hand  to 
the  chained,  the  despised,  the  dying  Gwinett ; and  whilst  I gave  it, 
whilst  I swore  to  love  and  honor  the  outcast  wretched  felon,  I felt  a 
stronger  pride  than  if  I’d  wedded  with  an  ermined  king.  [ Embracing 
Gwinett  ; Grayling,  who , during  this  speech,  is  become  quite  over- 
powered— by  an  effort  rouses  himself , exclaiming  wildly — 

Gray.  Tear  them  apart,  gaoler,  tear  them  apart,  I say. 

Bolt.  For  shame ! for  shame,  master  Grayling,  have  you  no  pity  'l 
Gray.  [Incoherently.]  Pity — havn’t  I to  do  my  work — havn’t  I to 

measure  the, culprit — havn’t  I to 

Gwin.  Hold  ! hold ! she  knows  not — spare  her. 

Gray.  Spare ! and  why  should  I spare  1 Hasn’t  she  wirled,  des- 
pised me  1 isn’t  she  Mrs.  Lucy  Gwinett,  the  wife  of  the  murderer, 
Gwinett  'l  hasn’t  she  spoken  words  that  pierced  me  through  and 
through  'l  and  why  should  I spare  1 — Felon,  you  know  your  sentence ; 

come,  let  me  measure  you  for  the  irons,  that 

Gwin.  Wretch ! heartless  ruffian  ! 

[As  Grayling  approaches  Gwinett,  he  seizes  the  rod  of  iron  held  by 
Grayling,  and  they  struggle — Gwinett  throws  Grayling  down , 
and  is  about  to  strike  him  with  the  iron , when  the  prison  bell  tolls , 
Gwinett’s  arm  falls  paralyzed  ; Grayling  looks  at  him  with  mali- 
cious joy  ; Lucy  sinks  on  her  knees,  raising  her  hands  to  heaven. 
At  this  moment,  a cry  is  set  up  without,  “ a reprieve  ! a reprieve  P* 
Officer , and  neighbors  enter  l.  Grayling  springing  on  his  feet,  tears 
the  paper  from  the  Officer's  hand , Lucy  at  the  same  time  exclaims , 

“ A reprieve ! say— for  Ambrose  l ” 

Offr.  No ; for  mad  George ! 

Gray.  [Eagerly.]  The  murderer’s  fate  is— 

Offr.  Death! 

[The prison  bell  again  tolls,  Lucy  falls  to  the  earth,  Gwinett  sinks 
into  a state  of  stupification,  Grayling  looks  at  him  with  an  air  of  - 
triumph!  characters  at  the  back  lift  iheir  hands  imploringly  to 
hearten  and  the  scene  doses.— 


SND  07  ACT  XL 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I .—The  Blake's  Head. 

Enter  Gilbert  and  Jenny,  as  landlord  and  landlady,  l 

Gil.  I tell  thee,  Jenny,  I can’t  help  it;  ever  as  this  day  comes 
round,  I’m  melancholy,  spite  of  reasoning. 

Jenny.  Well,  well;  but  it’s  so  long  ago. 

Gil.  But  not  the  less  to  be  remembered — it  is  now  eighteen  years 
this  very  day,  since  poor  Ambrose  Gwinett  died  the  death  of  a mur- 
derer ! — I’m  sure  he  was  innocent — I’d  lay  my  life  on  it. 

Jenny.  But  there’s  no  occasion  to  be  so  violent. 

Gil.  I tell  you  I can’t  think  with  calmness  and  speak  on  it.  A fine 
open  hearted  youth,  and  see  the  end  of  it.  Not  one  of  his  accusors 
but  is  come  to  shame.  Look  at  Grayling — Ned  Grayling  the  smith — 
don’t  good  folks  shake  the  head,  and  the  little  children  point  at  him 
as  he  goes  by — and  then  those  two  churls  who  scoffed  at  him,  as  he 
was  on  the  road  to  death — has  either  of  them  had  a good  crop  since  7 
havn’t  their  cattle  died  7 — their  hay-stacks  took  fire — with  all  kinds 
of  mischief  falling  on  them  7 

Jenny.  Yes,  and  poor  Lucy. 

Gil.  And  there  again  ; Lucy,  Gwinett’s  widow,  though  almost  bro- 
ken hearted — doesn’t  she  keep  a cheerful  face,  and  looking  smilingly, 
whilst  her  husband’s  accusors  are  ashamed  to  show  their  heads — I say 
again,  I know  he  was  innocent.  I know  the  true  murderers  will  some 
day  be  brought  to  light. 

Jenny.  I’m  sure  I hope  they  will;  but  in  the  mean  time,  we 
musn’t  stand  talking  about  it,  or  no  one  will  come  to  the  Blake’s 
Head. 

Gil.  Well,  well ; I leave  it  all  to  you  to  day,  Jenny  I’m  not  fit  to 
attend  to  the  customers.  Ah  ! good  fortune  has  been  showered  upon 
us — little  did  we  think  of  seeing  ourselves  owners  of  this  house ; but 
I’m  sure  I’d  walk  out  of  it  with  a light  heart,  if  it’s  old  owner,  poor 
Robert  Collins,  could  but  come  back  to  take  possession  of  it— but 
that’s  impossible,  so  we’ll  talk  no  more  of  it. 

Jenny.  Well,  I declare,  this  is  all  waste  of  time — we’ve  the  house 
full  of  customers,  and  here  we’re  standing  talking  as — 

Gil.  You  know  we  used  to  do  Jenny,  some  eighteen  years  ago ; then 
I was  waiter  and  ostler  here,  and  you  were  dairy  maid  at  squire— 

Jenny.  Well,  that’s  all  past,  where  is  the  use  of  looking  back. 

Gil.  A great  deal : when  a man  gets  to  the  top  of  the  hill  by  honest 
industry,  I say  he  deserves  to  be  taken  by  the  neck  and  hurled  down 
again,  if  he’s  ashamed  to  turn  about  and  look  at  the  lowly  road  aloig 
which  he  once  travelled. 

Jenny.  Well,  I did’t  mean  that. 

Gil.  No  no,  I know  you  meant  no  harm,  Jenny — but  you  will  talk— 
Well  I shall  gb  and  take  a rctand. 


AMBROSE  GWrKETT.  27 

Jenny.  You’re  going  to  the  meadow,  at  One-Tree-Fram  to  mope 
yourself  to  death. 

Gil.  Why  perhaps  I may  take  a turn  that  way — but  I shall  be  back 
soon — eh  ! who’s  this  'l 

Jenny.  Why  it’s  the  servant  of  the  rich  old  gentleman,  from  the  In- 
dies. 

Gil.  Oh  ! — what,  he  in  the  Dolphin  7 
Enter  Label,  dressed  as  a servant  l.  Jenny  curtseys  and  exit,  l. 

Lable.  Servant,  sir, — you  are  the  landlord. 

Gil.  Yes — hope  your  master  slept  well — I wasn’t  at  home  last  night 
when  you  put  up,  or  I should  have  paid  my  respects : — he’s  from  In- 
dia I hear. 

Lable.  From  India ! — and  as  rich,  and  as  liberal  as  an  emperor. 

Gil.  You’ve  been  some  time  in  his  service,  I suppose  1 

Lable.  Some  twelve  years. 

Gil.  Has  he  any  friends  in  these  parts  1 

Lable.  He  had  when  be  left,  or  rather  when  he  was  dragged  from 
this  country,  some  eighteen  years  ago. 

Gil.  Dragged  from  the  country  ! 

Label.  Yes  pressed — he  was  taken  on  board  ship  at  dead  of  night; 
the  vessel  weighed  anchor  at  day  break — started  for  India — and  there 
my  master,  what  with  one  and  another  piece  of  luck,  got  his  discharge : 
but  I believe  he  wishes  to  see  you. 

Gil.  I’ll  attend  him  directly — and  then  I’ll  go  and  take  my  melan- 
choly round.  [Exit.  r. 

Lable.  Nobody  knows  me — no  one  sees  the  valet  in  the  steward,  the 
late  Lable,  barber  and  doctor — and  only  think  that  I should  meet  with 
Master  Collins — a man  who  was  thought  murdered — alive  and  flourish- 
ing in  India — poor  Gwinett — poor  Ambrose — I have  never  had  the 
courage  to  tell  my  master  that  sad  story — he  little  thinks  that  an  in- 
nocent man  has  been  hanged  on  his  account — somehow  I wish  I had 
told  him — and  yet  what  would  have  been  the  use ; he  couldn’t  have 
brought  the  dead  man  alive  again,  and  it  would  only  have  made  him 
miserable.  But  now  he  can’t  long  escape  hearing  the  whole  tale,  and 
then,  what  will  become  of  me — no  matter ; I must  put  a bright  face 
upon  the  business,  and  trust  to  chances.  [Exit,  r. 

SCENE  II. — View  of  Deal — the  Sea. 

Enter  Gwinett,  l. — Graylin  a following,  carrying  a portmanteau. 

Gwin.  Unless  my  memory  deceives  me,  yonder  must  be  our  path. 

Gray.  That  would  have  been  the  road  once — but  ’tis  many  years 
since  that  was  blocked  up. 

Gwin.  I thought  I could  not  be  deceived. 

Gray.  Y ou  are  no  stranger  then  to  the  town  7 

Gwin.  No;  it  is  my  native  place — that  is,  I lived  in  it  some  years 
ago. — Have  you  been  long  here  7 

Gray.  Ever  since  I was  born. 


28 


AMTKIOSF.  GWINETT. 


Gwin.  And  are  doubtless  well  acquainted  with  the  history  of  most 
of  its  inhabitants. 

Gray.  Aye,  history,  yes,  I have  seen  proud  knaves  grovelling  in  the 
(lust,  and  poor  industry  raised  to  wealth. 

Gwin.  You,  my  friend,  do  not  seem  to  have  belonged  to  the  fortu- 
nate class. 

Gray.  No  matter  for  that ; but,  sir,  take  my  word,  you  had  bettor 
not  put  up  at  the  Blake’s  Head. 

Gwin.  And  why  not  7 

Gray.  ’Tis  full  of  company.  The  judges  are  now  in  the  town  to  try 
the  prisoners. 

Gwin.  Prisoners  ! you  have,  I trust,  but  few  convictions — at  least, 
for  very  great  offences — for  murder  now,  or 

Gray.  Murder  ! — no — ’tis  eighteen  years — eighteen  years  this  very 
day  since 

Gwin.  [Abstractedly.]  Eighteen  years — it  is — it  is  the  day. 

Gray.  Oh,  you  remember  it  then. 

Gwin.  No,  no  ; to  your  story. 

Gray.  I was  about  to  say  it  was  eighteen  years  since  the  last  exe- 
cution for  murder  happened  in  these  parts. 

Gwin.  And  the  culprit’s  name  was 

Gray.  [Fiercely.]  Gwinett — Ambrose  Gwinett — ha  ! ha  ! 

Gwin.  Were  there  not,  if  I remember  rightly,  some  doubts  of 
Gwinett’s  guilt  7 

Gray.  Doubts ! — there  might  have  been  among  those  who  are 
touched  with  a demure  look;  but  no,  he  was  guilty — guilty  of  the 
murder — and  I saw  him  die  the  death  of  an  assassin. 

Gwin.  Pray  was  not  part  of  his  sentence  by  some  means  evaded  7 

Gray.  It  was. 

Gwin.  I have  heard  but  a confused  account  of  the  transaction. 

Gray.  [Eagerly.]  I can  tell  you  the  whole — every  word  of  it.  He 
was  sentenced  to  be  hung  in  chains — another  that  was  to  suffer  with 
him  was  pardoned  ; so  the  murderer  died  alone.  Never  shall  I forget 
the  morning. — Though  eighteen  years  ago,  it  is  now  as  fresh  in  my 
memory  as  though  it  was  the  work  of  yesterday  : I saw  the  last  con- 
vulsive struggle  of  the  murderer — nay,  I assisted  in  rivetting  the  iron- 
on  the  corse — ’twas  hung  at  the  destined  spot ; but,  when  morning 
came,  the  body  was  not  there. 

Gwin.  Was  no  inquiry  instituted  7 

Gray.  Yes  ; it  was  supposed  the  relations  of  the  murderer  had  sto- 
len the  body  to  give  it  burial : the  murderer’s  uncle,  and  wife  were 
examined — but  after  a time,  no  further  stir  was  made. — Curse  upon 
the  trick,  it  cost  me  my  bread. 

Gwin.  How  so  7 

Gray.  Why  I was  the  prison-smith — had  the  irons  fitted  the  corso, 
it  must  have  been  cut  to  pieces,  ere  it  could  have  been  removed. 

Gwin.  Gracious  heavens  ! your  name  is 

Gray.  Grayling — Ned  Grayling — once  a sound  hearted  happy  man, 
but  now — come,  sir,  all  the  inns  will  be  full. 

Gwin.  [Snatching  the  portmanteau  from  him.]  Wretch!  begone— 
you  serve  me  not. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


29 


Gray . Wretch  ! well,  granted — it  is  true  : I am  a homeless,  penny- 
less,  broken-hearted  wretch!  I have  seen  every  earthly  happinoss 
snatched  from  me — I have  sunk  little  by  little,  from  an  honest  indus- 
trious man,  to  the  poor  crawling,  famishing,  drunkard — I am  become 
hateful  to  the  world — loathsome  even  to  myself.  You  will  not  then 
6ufi‘er  me  to  be  your  porter  l 

Gwin.  No ! begone. 

Gray.  Well,  ’tis  all  one ; yet  you  might,  I think,  let  a starving  fel- 
low creature  earn  a trifle. 

Gwin.  Starving  l 

Gray.  I have  scarcely  broken  bread  these  two  days 

Gwin.  Unhappy  creature — here — [ gives  money — Grayling  offers 
to  take  portmanteau] — no,  I will  not  trouble  you.  Go,  get  food,  and 
reform  your  way  of  life.  [Exit,  l. 

Gray.  Reform  ! too  late — too  late.  Had  I the  will,  time  would  not 
let  me;  a few  months — nay,  weeks,  days — and  the  passenger  may 
pause  at  the  lifeless  corse  of  Grayling  stretched  in  the  highway. 
Every  eye  looks  scorn  upon  me — every  hand  shrinks  at  my  touch — 
every  head’s  averted  from  me,  as  though  a pestilence  were  in  my 
glance. — Intemperance  and  fierce  passion  have  brought  upon  me  pre- 
mature old  age — my  limbs  are  palsied,  and  my  eyesight  fails. — 
What’s  this,  alms — alms — won  by  wretched  supplication  ! well,  ’twill 
buy  me  a short  forgetfulness — oblivion  is  now  my  only  happiness. 


Black.  You  were  wrong  to  let  him  pass  you  : had  you  but  watched 
my  motions,  he  could  not  have  escaped. 

Ash.  But  in  the  day  time  1 

Black.  Day  time ! day  is  night  if  no  one  sees.  He’s  goue  to  the 
Blake’s  Head. 

Ash.  Aye,  I never  pass  the  door,  but  my  heart  beats  and  my  knees 
tremble. 

Black.  What ! hav’n’t  eighteen  years  cured  you  of  that  trick  1 

Ash.  Cured  me — that  bag  of  money — that  bag — ’twas  the  first  thing 
that  turned  me  from  the  paths  of  honesty  and  grievously  have  I wan- 
dered since. 

Black.  Still  whining,  still  complaining,  what  good  could  the  money 
do  to  the  dead  'l 

Ash.  And  what  good  has  it  done  us  1 but  let’s  not  talk  about  it. 

Black.  That’s  right,  and  now  listen  to  me.  We  must  have  a peep 
into  that  pormanteau. 

Ash.  Impossible ! 

Black.  Not  so,  we’ll  to  the  Inn  : whore  can  Grayling  be  1 

Ash.  Not  far  off  I warrant. 

Black.  Well,  no  matter,  we  can  even  do  this  job  without  him  ; bul 
one  lucky  hit  and  we  are  made  men. 

Ash.  Aye,  this  has  been  your  cry  year  after  year — luck ! I think  1 
see  our  luck  in  every  tree,  and  in  every  rope. 


[Exit,  l. 


Enter  Blackthorn  and  Will  Ash,  r. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Black.  Well,  farewell,  for  the  present,  but  meet  me  round  the  lane 
leading  to  the  back  part  of  the  house. 

Ash.  Round  by  the  lane — no,  that  I can’t  do : I must  pass  my  wife 
and  children’s  graves — I have  not  dared  to  look  upon  them  this  many 
a day. 

Black.  You  refuse  then  1 

Ash.  No ; I’ll  meet  you,  but  for  the  path,  that  I’ll  choose  myself. 

[ Exeunt , r. 

SCENE  III. — Interior  of  the  Blake's  Head. 

Enter  Lucy  and  Gilbert,  l. 

GH.  Nay,  but  you  must  see  him  ; I promised  you  should. 

Lucy.  You  were  wrong,  good  Gilbert,  I cannot  see  him. 

Gil.  No,  ’tis  you  are  wroug,  Mrs.  Lucy  Gwinett,  how  do  you  know 
but  he  may  bring  you  good  news  7 

Lucy.  Can  he  make  the  dead  live  again  1 Good  news  ! 

Gil.  Well,  now  for  ray  sake,  see  the  gentleman. 

Lucy.  I cannot  refuse  you.  Heaven  knows  what  would  have  been 
my  fate,  had  I not  found  a friend — a protector  in  you. 

Gil.  You’ll  see  him  then'?  Ah,  I knew  you’d  think  better  of  it. 
He’s  a very  pleasant  kind  of  gentleman  ; and  asked  after  you  so  earn- 
estly, that  I am  sure  he  cannot  mean  but  kind. 

Enter  Grayling,  abruptly,  l. 

Well,  and  what  do  you  want  1 

Gray.  Aye,  it’s  ever  thus. — Do  you  think  I bring  the  plague  into 
your  house,  that  you  look  so  fiercely  at  me  7 

Gil.  I don’t  know,  but  you  do  ! — Is  there  nobody  here  that  you  are 
ashamed  to  gaze  upon  'l 

Gray.  No ; I see  nobody  but  you  and  Mrs.  Lucy — I beg  her  pardon, 
Mrs.  Lucy  Gwinett. 

Gil.  Villain! 

Gray.  Thou  liest — stop — there  was  a time,  when,  at  such  a word, 
I’d  seen  thee  sprawling  at  my  feet ; but  now,  I can’t  tell  how  it  is — I 
cannot  strike  thee. 

Gil.  But  I’ll  tell  you  how  it  is — the  title’s  a just  one — you  feel  it 
sink  into  your  heart — and  your  arm  is  palsied  ; once  more,  leave  my 
house. 

Gray.  And  why  is  my  money  not  as  good  as  a finer  customer’s  1 
why  can’t  you  take  my  money  'l 

[ During  this  scene , Blackthorn  and  Ash  enter  behind  p.  s.  and  ex- 
eunt through  door  in  flat,  r. 

Gil.  Why,  in  truth,  Grayling,  I’m  afraid  ’tis  gained  by  too  foul  a 
business. 

Gray.  Ha ! ha ! the  conscience  of  an  innkeeper. 

Gil.  Grayling,  leave  the  house;  at  any  time  I’d  sooier  look  upon  a 


AMBROSE  GWINETT.  8] 

field  of  blighted  corn,  than  see  you  cross  my  threshold ; but  on  thii 
day,  beyond  all 

Gray.  This  day. — and  why?  [ Sarcastically , and  looking  at  Luc*.] 
oh,  I had  forgotten  ; yes,  it  is  the  very  day— 

Lucy.  Oh ! good  Gilbert. 

Gil.  Stay  but  one  moment  longer,  and  as  I am  a man,  I’ll  send  thee 
headforemost  into  the  street. 

Gray.  Fine  words ! 

Gil.  We’ll  try  them. 

[Gilbert  is  rushing  at  Grayling,  when  Lucy  comes  between  them, 

Gwinett  enters  hastily  at  this  moment , and  starts  on  beholding 

Lucy  ; Grayling  sees  Gwinett,  exchanges  a look  af  defiance  with 

Gilbert  and  Lucy,  and  goes  sullenly  off.  p.  s. 

Gwin.  [Aside.]  ’Tis  she ! oh,  heavens ! all  my  dangers  are  repaid. 

Gil.  An  unruly  customer,  sir,  that’s  all — I’ll  take  care  he  does  not 
disturb  you.  [To  Lucy.]  This  is  the  gentleman  who  would  speak  to 
you. 

Lucy.  Do  not  leave  me. 

Gil  Nay,  he  has  something  he  says  to  tell  thee  privately — I’ll  be 
within  call.  [Exit,  s. 

Gwin.  [Aside.]  Let  me  be  calm,  lest  too  suddenly  the  secret  burst 
upon  her — she  knows  me  not — time  and  peril  have  wrought  this 
change. 

Lucy.  You  would  speak  to  me,  Sir? 

Gwin.  I would,  Madam ; is  there  no  one  within  hearing  ? 

Lucy.  No  one — but  why  such  caution  ? 

Gwin.  ’Tis  necessary  for  the  memory  of  one  you  once  loved. 

Lucy.  Whom  mean  you  ? 

Gwin.  Ambrose ! 

Lucy.  Oh  ! in  mercy  speak  not  that  name — I dare  not  breath  it  to 
myself ; once  loved — oh ! this  agony — you  probe  into  a breaking  heart. 

Gwin.  But  not  recklessly,  believe  me. 

Lucy.  Alas,  what  avails  this  now — let  the  dead  rest  unspoken  of— 
break  not  the  silence  of  my  Gwinett’s  grave. 

Gwin.  His  grave ! 

Lucy.  Oh ! you  wake  a thousand  horrors  in  my  soul ; he  has  no 
grave ; they  stole  him  from  me — they  robbed  the  widow  of  her  last 
bitter  consolation. 

Gwin.  Perhaps  it  was  the  deed  of  friends. 

Lucy.  Friends! — But  to  your  errand,  Sir,  what  would  you  say? 
speak  it  quickly,  lest  my  reason  desert  me,  and  you  talk  to  mad- 
ness : — I was  told  you  brought  me  comfort,  I smiled  at  the  word ; if 
seems  my  unbelief  was  right. 

Gwin.  1 do  bring  you  comfort — News  of  your  husband. 

Lucy.  Ah  ! perhaps,  yes,  I see  it — you  can  tell  me  where  they  laid 
his  cold  remains — can  lead  me  to  his  grave,  where  I may  find  a re- 
fuge too. — You  weep,  nay  then  I know  your  mission  is  one  of  kind- 
ness— of  charity  to  the  widow  of  that  unhappy  guiltless  soul,  who  died 
a felon’s  death  on  yonder  hill. 


J2 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Gwin.  I would  speak  of  Ambrose— but,  start  not  —he  died  not  at 
the  hour  men  think. 

Lucy.  Died  not  1 

Gwin.  As  you  loved  your  husband  living,  and  weep  him  dead,  I 
charge  you  conjure  up  all  the  firmness  springing  from  woman’s  love, 
nor  let  one  sound  or  breath  escape  you  to  publish  the  sad  history  I’m 
about  to  tell. 

Lucy.  I’m  fixed  as  stone — should  my  husband  rise  before  me,  my 
heart  might  burst,  but  not  a cry  should  escape  me. 

Gwin.  Many  years  after,  the  whole  world  believed  him  dead — your 
husband  lived.  [ Lucy  by  a violent  effort  maintains  her  silence.  ] You 
know  ’twas  thought  the  body  had  been  stolen  for  interment. — Listen, 
I knew  your  husband — met  him  abroad  : to  me,  he  confided  the  secret, 
of  his  escape ; to  me,  he  described  the  frightful  scene — the  thronging 
multitude— the  agonies  of  death  ! The  dreadful  ordeal  past,  the  min- 
isters of  justice  executed  the  remaining  part  of  the  sentence — tho 
body  was  suspended  in  chains.  Whether  it  was  from  the  inexperi- 
ence of  the  executioner,  or  the  hurried  manner  in  which  the  sad  tra- 
gedy was  performed,  I know  not, — but  your  husband  still  lived — the 
fresh  airs  of  night  blew  upon  him,  and  he  revived — revived  and  found 
himself  hanging. — Oh ! my  blood  thickens  as  I think  upon  the  torture 
that  was  his — fortunately,  the  irons  that  supported  him,  hung  loosely 
about  him  ; by  a slight  effort  he  freed  his  limbs,  and  dropping  to  the 
earth,  hastened  with  all  speed,  to  another  part  of  the  coast,  took  ship 
and  quitted  England. 

Lucy.  [ Incoherently .]  And  I ! — I not  to  know  of  this — unkind. 

Gwin.  Often  he  strove  to  inform  you — often  wrote,  but  ne’er  re- 
ceived an  answer, — twelve  years  ago  he  set  out,  resolved  to  dare  all 
hazards  and  seek  you,  when  he  was  taken  by  the  Moors  and  sold  for 
a slave — I knew  him  whilst  a captive. 

Lucy.  And  did  he  die  in  slavery — oh,  your  looks  declare  it — un- 
happy wretched  Gwinett, — but  no,  happy,  thrice  happy,  he  died  not 
on  a scaffold.  Did  he  hope  you  would  ever  see  his  miserable  widow  I 

Gwin.  He  did,  and  gave  me  this  locket — it  contains  your  hair. 

Lucy.  Oh,  give  it  me — oh,  well  do  I remember  when  I saw  it  last, 
Gwinett  was  gazing  at  it  with  tearful  eyes,  when  the  prison  bell — oh, 
that  sound  ! ’tis  here  still — I’m  sick  at  heart. 

\ Falls  on  Gwinett' s shoulder. 

Gwin.  Still  she  knows  me  not — how  to  discover  myself ! — oh  Lucy, 
what  a ruin  has  sorrow  made  of  thee. 

Lucy.  [Reviving.]  Ah  ! — what  was  that  1 — no  no,  I wander — yes,  it 
is — [ recognizing  him.]  oh  heavens,  it  is  my  husband  ! 

[Falls  into  his  arms. 

Gwin.  Within  there — 

Enter  Jenny,  r. 

Assist  me  to  remove  her — she  will  recover  shortly— come,  madam. 

[Exeunt,  r. 


Enter  Grayling  cautiously,  r. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


83 

Gray.  So ! no  one  here — I can  see  nothing  of  Blackthorn  or  IVill  Ash, 
well,  all  the  better,  I may  be  spared  some  mischief — and  then  how  to 
live  I — live,  can  I call  this  life — a dreadful  respite  from  day  to  day — 
hunger  and  disgrace  dogging  my  steps — what  do  I here  1 — there  is  a 
charm  that  holds  me  to  this  spot,  and  spite  of  the  taunts,  the  rebukes 
that’s  showered  upon  me  I cannot  quit  it,  nor  ever  whilst  Lucy  is — eh ! 
who  have  we  here  ? 

Enter  Blackthorn  and  Will  Ash  cautiously  from  door  in  flat  with 
G winett  ’ s portmanteau 

Blackthorn  ! — Ash ! 

Black.  [ Whispering.]  Hush — not  a word. 

Gray.  What  have  you  there  'l 

Black.  Plunder,  and  good  booty  too  I take  it. 

Gray.  And  what  would  you  do  with  it  % 

Black.  What ! — that  question  from  Grayling  ? — come  let’s  away. 
Ash.  We  cannot — the  portmanteau  will  be  missed,  and  we  instantly 
pursued. 

Black.  Stay — is  there  no  surer  way — I have  it — we’ll  even  shake  its 
contents  a bit,  and  leave  the  trunk  here — what  say  you,  Grayling  'l 
Gray.  As  you  will — I’m  fit  for  any  work. 

Black.  Come  then,  and  assist — [ Puts  portmanteau  on  table  ana  open 
it.]  eh — he’s  well  provided — [Takes  out  a pair  of  pistols  and  puts 
them  on  table.]  Ah  !—  here’s  gold — [Takes  out  purse. J Dos’t  hear  it 
chink  I — Grayling,  come  and  assist,  man. 

Gray.  [Approaching  the  table,  and,  recognizing  portmanteau.]  Hold 
for  your  lives — you  must  not,  shall  not,  touch  this. 

Black.  Eh  ! — how  does  the  wind  blow  now  'l — and  why  not  I pray  1 
Gray.  Anything  but  this — the  owner  this  morning  relieved  my  nec- 
essities— hundreds  passed  and  heeded  not  the  outcast,  famishing,  Gray- 
ling— he  who  claims  this,  gave  me  alms,  and  bade  me  repent — I am 
a wretch,  a poor  houseless,  despised  wretch — yet  villain  as  I am,  there 
is  some  touch  of  feeling  left — my  hand  would  fall  withered  did  I at- 
tempt to  touch  it. 

Black  Ah,  this  may  be  all  very  well. 

Gray.  Blackthorn — Ash — dare  but  to  lay  a robber’s  hand  on  a sin- 
gle doit,  and  I’ll  alarm  the  house. 

Black.  Tush. 

Gray  To  the  trial  then. 

Grayling  advances  to  table  and  seizes  hold  of  part  of  the  contents  of 
the  portmanteau  from  the  hand  of  Blackthorn — they  struggle — 
Blackthorn  regains  the  purse  and  Grayling  is  about  to  pursue 
him , when  his  eye  falls  upon  a packet  of  letters  that  still  remains 
in  his  hand — he  stands  petrified — Blackthorn  and.  Ash  are  about 
to  go  off  at  the  opposite  wings  when  Label  and  Gilbert  come  in  from 
behind,  and  each  taking  a pistol  from,  table,  comedown  and  prevent 
the  escape  of  the  robbers — Grayling  in  a state  of  agitation  un- 
mindful of  every  thing  but  the  papers , which  he  hastily  looks  over. 
Gil.  So  my  brave  fellows,  here  you  are — three  knaves  between  a 
parenthesis  of  bullets. 


54 


.AMBKUSK  avv I. NETT. 


Black.  Why,  what’s  the  matter'?  it’s  all  a mistake. 

Gil  A mistake — yes,  I suppose  you  intended  to  be  a very  honest 
fellow,  but  by  accident  are  become  a convicted  scoundrel. 

Black.  Well, — there’s  the  money — now  we’re  clear. 

Gil.  Clear  ! — and  you,  Grayling,  are  you  not  ashamed  l — do  you 
not  fear  the  gallows  l 

Gray.  [Madly.]  Gallows  ! — no,  all  was  lost — good  name — hopes — 
happiness — but  yet  I had  revenge — I hugged  it  to  my  heart — ’ids  gone, 
and  Grayling  has  nought  to  live  for. 

Gil.  Give  me  those  papers. 

Gray.  Did  I say  revenge  was  gone  ? — no,  it  rages  again  with  re- 
doubled fury — he  shall  not  foil  me — this  time  his  death  is  sure. 

Gil.  Unhappy  wretch — give  me  those  papers. 

Gray.  Millions  should  not  buy  them,  till  they  had  served  my  pur- 
pose— oh,  it  all  bursts  on  my  maddened  brain — relieved — pitied  by 
him ! — 

Gil.  Grayling — yield  ere  your  fate  is  certain. 

Gray.  Never ! 

Gil.  Call  in  assistance.  [Label  goes  up  stage  and  beckons  on  neigh- 
bors, §c.  Gwinett  and  Lucy  come  on.  l.J  There,  secure  the  prisoner. 
Gray.  Aye — secure  the  prisoner. 

Off.  Which  is  he  1 

Gil.  There — Grayling  the  robber. 

Gray.  No— not  Grayling  the  robber — but,  there,  Gwinett  the  con- 
victed murderer. 

Omnes.  Gwinett  1 

Gil.  Gwinett ! — Ambrose  Gwinett ! — it  can’t  be. 

Gwin.  It  is  even  so,  good  Gilbert — though  wonderful  ’tis  true. 

Gil.  He’s  innocent — I knew  he  was  innocent — good  friends — kind 
neighbors — let  not  this  be  spoken  of — heaven  has  by  a miracle  pre- 
served a guiltless  man — you  will  all  be  secret — no  one  here  will  tell 
the  tale. 

Gray.  Yes — here, is  one 

Gil.  You  will  not  be  that  wretch. 

Lucy.  [Falling  at  Grayling’s/^.]  Mercy!  mercy! 

Gray.  Are  you  there,  Lucy  Gwinett — think  of  my  agonies — my 
hopes  all  blighted — my  affections  spurned — think  of  my  sufferings  for 
eighteen  years — look  at  me — can  you  kneel  before  the  ruin  which 
your  scorn  has  made — but  now,  now  I triumph — seize  upon  the  mur- 
derer. [All  indicate  unwillingness .]  Nay  then,  I will  proclaim  the  tale 
throughout  the  town. 

[is  rushing  up  stage , when  Gilbert  seizes  him  by  the  throat. 
Gil.  You  stir  not  a foot — if  a murderer  must  be  hanged,  it  shall  be 
for  strangling  such  a serpent. 

Grayling  and  Gilbert  struggle — Grayling  throws  Gilbert  from 
him , and  with  the  rest  of  the  characters  following,  rushes  up  the 
stage. — As  he  is  about  to  exit  at  back , the  folding  doors  fly  open , 
and  Collins,  an  old  grey-headed  man,  presents  himself  at  the  en- 
trance ; a general  exclamation  of  “ Collins  ” from  all  the  charac- 
ters who  recoil  in  amazement. 


AMBROSE  GWINETT. 


Gray.  See — his  ghost,  the  ghost  of  the  victim  rises  from  the  grave 
to  claim  the  murderer — I am  revenged — I triumph — ha  ! ha  ! ha ! 

[Falls  exhausted 

Col.  My  friends — Lucy 
Lucy.  My  uncle  ! 

Gwin.  He  lives ! he  lives ! the  world  believes  me  innocent ! beholds 
me  free  from  the  stain  of  blood ! 

Gil.  Master — oh  ! day  of  wonders ! — the  dead  come  back. 

Col.  Wonders,  indeed  ! Gwinett,  ’tis  but  within  this  past  half  hour, 
I have  heard  the  story  of  your  sufferings. 

Gil.  But  tell  me,  master,  how  is  this  'l  dead ! and  not  dead,  and — 
Col  Another  time  ; it  is  a tedious  story,  the  night  you  thought  me 
killed,  I had  left  my  chamber  to  procure  assistance  to  staunch  a 
wound — scarcely  had  I crossed  the  threshold,  than  I was  seized  by  a 
press-gang,  and  hurried but  see  to  yon  unhappy  man. 

They  raise  Grayling,  who  is  dying ; his  face  is  pale , his  eyes  set , 
and  his  lips  and  hands  stained  as  though  he  had  burst  a bloods 
vessel. 

Gray.  [Seeing  Collins.]  There  still — not  gone  yet  1 
Col.  How  fares  it  now,  Grayling  1 

Gray.  And  speaks — lives — then  Gwinett,  Gwinett  the  husband  of 
Lucy — my  Lucy,  for  I loved  her  first — is  no  murderer. 

Lucy.  Grayling. 

Gray.  Oh ! Lucy,  that  voice,  my  heart  leaps  to  it — leaps  to  it  as  it 
did — but  all’s  past ; Lucy,  you  will  not  curse  me  when  I’m  dead — 
there  are  those  who  will — but  let  them — you  will  not  r the  earth  is 
sliding  from  beneath  my  feet — my  eyes  are  dark — what  are  these  1 — 
tears— Lucy’s  tears  ! — I am  happy.  [Sinks  backward . 


THE  END. 

Disposition  of  the  characters  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain : 
Neighbors.  Collins.  Label. 

Blackthorn.  Lucy.  Grayling.  Gilbert.  Gwinett.  Abb, 


\ . 


' 


FRENCH'S  STANDARD  DRAMA 

ST&e  Acting  ISUftfon. 

No.  CXCI. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES 

THE  TRAVELERS  BENIGHTED; 

OR,  THE  BLEEDING  NUN  OF  LINDENBERG. 


§i,n  Interesting  Iprama,  in  ®frro  ^tts. 

BY  MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

Author  of  “ 7Vte  Castle  Spectre,'"  “ Venoni “One  O'Clock,"  “Ilugantino,"  fyc. 


ro  WHICH  ARE  ADDED 

A Description  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exits— 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and 
the  whole  of  the  Stage  Business. 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  THE 

PRINCIPAL  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  THEATRES. 


New  York  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH  & SON, 

PUBLISHERS, 

28  WEST  23d  STREET. 


London: 

SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

PUBLISHER, 

89,  STRAND 


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Costume  . — [Raymond  and  Agnes.] 


DON  FELIX. — Brown  Spanish  doublet  and  breeches — rich  spangled 
cloak — russet  shoes,  with  rosettes. 

DON  RAYMOND. — Light  blue  velvet  and  silver  tunic — white  vest 
and  tights — russet  boots — ruff — sword — black  velvet  hat,  with  white 
o&trich  feathers. 

THEODORE. — White  kerseymere  doublet,  vest  and  pantaloons,  trim- 
med with  blue  satin  and  black  velvet  binding — sword — russet  boots 
— black  hat  and  feathers. 

CONRAD. — Yellow  doublet,  trunks  and  vest,  trimmed  with  blue  and 
red  binding — blue  hose — russet  boots — collar  and  hat  to  match. 

BAPTIST  A. — Brown  tunic,  vest  and  trunks — red  hose — russet  shoes 
— gray  wig — black  hat  and  feathers — dagger,  &c. 

ROBERT. — Plum-colored  ditto. 

JAQUES. — Iron-gray  ditto. 

CLAUDE. — Bluejacket — yellow  vest — leather  breeches — large  French 
boots — glazed  hat — hand  whip. 

MARCO. — Salmon-colored  doublet,  vest  and  trunks,  trimmed  with 
blue  and  black  binding,  and  bell  buttons — blue  hose — russet  shoes 
— collar — hat  and  feathers  to  match. 

AGNES. — First  dress:  White  satin  slip,  over  a white  leno  dress — 
white  hat  and  and  feathers — white  satin  shoes.  Seeond  dress:  Same 
as  the  Bleeding  Nun. 

CUNEGONDE. — Old-fashioned  bottle-green  dress,  with  point-lace 
trimming — kerchief  and  apron — witches’-cut  hat — high-heeled 
shoes. 

URSULA. — Monastic  black  dress,  with  a large  white  covering  or  cap 
for  the  head. 

MARGUERETTE. — Dark  blue  stuff  body,  petticoat,  &c.,  trimmed 
with  red  binding — dark  shoes — a blue  ribbon  run  through  the  hair. 

THE  BLEEDING  NUN. — White  muslin — beads,  cross  and  dagger. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance , Left.  R.  First  Entrance , Right.  S.  E.  L. 
Second  Entrance , Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance , Right.  U.  E.  L. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance , Right.  C.  Centre. 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance , 
1 .eft.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance , Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R 
Door  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Ijeft.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door,  Left.  U.  D.  R 
Upper  Door , Right. 

***  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES 


ACT  I. 

S^ENE  I. — A Gothic  Library.  A table,  with  pens,  ink,  Sfc.,  c. 

Music. — Don  Raymond  discovered,  seated,  c.,  reading — Theodore 
attending , l. 

Ray.  Books — sweet  companions  of 'my  retirement,  equally  my  de- 
light and  solace — farewell ! the  commands  of  a much-honored  parent 
tears  me  from  you  now.  Ah  ! shall  I meet  in  that  gay  world  com- 
panions at  once  so  innocent  and  so  instructive  1 

The.  Oh,  yes,  sir;  if  you  like,  you  may  meet  with  whole  folios  of 
them,  perhaps  to  the  full  as  innocent,  and  certainly  much  more  enter- 
taining. 

Ray.  What,  than  books,  sirrah  'l 

The.  Yes,  signor,  living  books;  for  instance,  woman — -*that  lovely 
index,  in  which,  though  the  student  may  sometimes  discover  a few 
errata,  yet  he  is  always  sure  to  find  those  beauties  which  compose  that 
sublime  and  wondrous  work  called  nature. 

Ray.  Well  said,  Theodore;  you  improve,  man. 

The.  Why,  yes,  signor ; converse  with  the  ladies  does  improve  a 
man.  0’  my  conscience,  they  can  instruct  better  than  your  Homers, 
Yirgils,  Alexanders  the  Great,  or  any  other  of  your  heathen  Greek 
poets. 

Ray.  [Rising.]  Hush  ! here  comes  my  father. 

Music. — Enter  Don  Felix,  r. 

Eel.  Raymond,  my  son,  all  is  now  in  readiness  for  your  departure; 
the  hour  has  arrived  when,  for  the  first  time,  you  quit  your  paternal 
roof  without  a guide,  witho  it  a protector. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


5 


The.  Then  I am  not  to  accompany  my  dear  young  signor  I 

Fel.  Why,  how  now — what  ails  thee,  knave  I 

The.  Nothing,  my  lord;  only  I had  a kind  of  moisture  in  my  eyes, 
and  a strange  sort  of  choking  in  my  throat,  that’s  all. 

Fel.  Psha!  Most  certainly,  Theodore,  thou  shalt  accompany  my 
son. 

The.  Then,  pray,  signor,  do  not  say  Don  Raymond  will  be  without 
a protector.  I’m  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  road  we  are  go- 
ing to  he  his  guide,  certainly ; but  should  he  stand  in  need  of  protec- 
tion, depend  upon  it,  signor,  I will  give  it  him. 

Fel.  I thank  thy  honest  zeal,  Theodore;  it  shall  not  he  forgotten. 
[Giving  Raymond  a purse.]  My  son,  here  are  two  thousand  pistolea 
- — they  will  amply  supply  your  wants  for  some  months ; when  they 
are  on  the  decline,  fear  not  to  draw  upon  me  for  /lore. 

The.  If  he  should,  signor,  I’ll  put  him  in  remembrance  of  it. 

Fel.  But  I have  one  request  to  make,  Raymond  ; ’tis  that  you  con- 
ceal your  name  and  diguity.  As  Raymond,  Count  de  la  Cisternas, 
you  would  everywhere  be  received  with  respect  and  adulation;  but 
that  attention  would  be  paid  to  your  rank,  not  to  your  worth.  Now; 
as  Alpnonso  D’Alvarada — the  name  I mean  you  to  assume — you  must 
rely  upon  your  own  merits  for  a favorable  reception  from  the  world. 

Ray.  I hope  sir,  I shall  deserve  your  good  opinion.  Your  com- 
mands shall  be  religiously  obeyed. 

Fel.  You  alone,  Theodore,  shall  accompany  my  son  ; I can  depend 
upon  your  attachment  and  fidelity. 

The.  I have  served  him  from  my  cradle,  signor,  and  never  yet  failed 
in  my  duty;  and  if  you  find  me  changed  on  our  return,  I will  give 
you  leave  to  hang  me  up  in  a cage  at  the  chateau,  and  show  me  as  a 
traveled  monster. 

Fel.  No  more  professions;  we  waste  time.  The  carriage  waits 
which  is  to  bear  you  hence.  Come,  my  son,  you  must  away. 

[Music. — Exeunt , r. 

SCENE  II. — A Street  in  Madrid.  Large  gates , leading  to  a convent , 
l.  3 e. — a large  hotel , with  a balcony  window  over  the  door,  r.  s.  e. 

Enter  Cunegonde  and  Conrad,  r. 

Cun.  [c.]  Holy  St.  Hilda!  what  a distressing  journey  have  we  had  ! 
I declare,  the  Baron  and  Baroness  Lindenberg  have  no  more  respect 
for  the  feelings  of  their  friends  than  if  they  imagined  theyT  were  made 
of  rock  marble ; while,  heaven  knows,  I have  not  one  grain  of  ada- 
mant in  my  composition.  [ Striking  Conrad  with  her  cane.]  Why, 
how  you  stand,  lout ! Am  I,  after  myr  fatigue,  to  expire  in  the  street 
for  want  of  refreshment  I Why  do  you  not  knock  at  the  door  I 
[Conrad  goes  towards  the  hotel,  r.]  Why,  what  are  you  about,  sirrah  I 
Why  do  you  not  do  as  I order  you  1 

Con.  [r.]  I’m  going,  madam,  if  you’ll  only  give  me  time. 

Cun.  Holy  St.  Bridget ! did  I bid  you  go  to  the  hotel,  sirrah  1 

Con.  You  said  you  wanted  refreshment. 

Cun.  Grant  me  patience  ! and  you  thought  I should  go  to  a tavern 


G 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


for  it  1 Do  you  imagine  snch  a place  fit  for  the  immaculate  Cune- 
gonde, principal  domestic  to  the  Baron  and  Baroness  Lindenberg,  and 
governante  to  their  niece,  the  young  and  beautiful  Agnes  1 

Con.  I’m  sure  I do  not  know,  madam. 

Cun.  Do  not  know  ! Dolt ! knock  at  the  gates  of  the  convent. 

Con.  Yes,  madam.  [ Crosses , and  knocks  at  the  convent  gates. 

Enter  Ursula,  the  Porteress , from  the  gates , l.  .3  e.  Cunegonde 
and  Ursula  salute  each  other  ceremoniously . 

Cun.  Holy  sister,  I wish  to  speak  with  the  pious  matron  of  St.  Clare ; 
deliver  this  letter  to  her,  and  inform  her  that  I am  deputed  by  the 
Baron  and  Baroness  Lindenberg  to  take  home  tlieir  niece,  the  boarder 
Agnes.  • 

Urs.  The  inhabitants  of  the  convent  are  at  present  occupied  in 
some  religious  duties  in  honor  of  our  patroness,  the  holy  St.  Clare. 
If  you  will  enter  my  apartment,  as  soon  as  they  are  finished  you 
shall  be  introduced  to  our  pious  mother. 

Cun.  Willingly,  good  sister.  Follow  us,  Conrad. 

Urs.  Your  pardon — the  servant  must  not  enter.  I am  shocked  at 
the  idea  of  a man’s  profaning,  by  his  presence,  our  holy  walls. 

Cun.  Holy  sister,  pardon  my  inexperience.  I respect  the  purity  of 
your  sentiments — ah  ! how  much  they  accord  with  my  own  ! [Conrad 
being  close  at  her  elbow , r.,  she  pushes  him  away.]  Conrad,  stand  fur- 
ther off,  lest  we  should  be  contaminated  by  your  touch  ! Wait  for 
me  iu  the  street.  [ Exeunt  Ursula  and  Cunegonde  through  the  con- 
vent gates — Conrad  retires  up,  r. 

Enter  Don  Raymond,  r.,  followed  by  Theodore,  carryinq  a port- 
manteau. 

Ray.  [l.  c.J  At  length  we  are  arrived  in  Madrid.  Knock  at  the 
door  of  that  hotel — I wish  for  a little  refreshment. 

The.  [Going  to  the  hotel,  r.  s.  e.,  and  knocking  at  the  door.]  And 
a large  quantity  would  not  be  amiss  for  your  faithful  servant,  Theo- 
dore. They  say  sorrow  is  dry — mine  has  made  me  hungry,  too. 

Ray.  And,  pray,  what  grief  weighs  so  heavy  upon  your  spirits  1 

The.  Love,  signor — love  for  my  little  black-eyed  Annette.  Ah ! 
the  very  last  time  I met  her,  in  the  long  cypress  walk,  by  moonlight, 
at  the  back  of  the  chateau,  she  smiled,  and  said  to  me 

Enter  Marco  from  the  hotel , r.  s.  e. 

Mar.  [r.  c.]  Who  the  devil  was  it  that  knocked  at  my  door  1 

The.  [c.]  Oh  no,  that  was  not  what  she  said. 

Ray.  [l.  c.J  Landlord,  I require  some  refreshment;  and  can  you 
obtain  for  me  a guide  to  conduct  us  through  the  forest  to  the  next 
post  I 

Mar.  Certainly  I can,  signor.  If  you  will  only  give  yourself  the 
trouble  to  walk  into  my  house,  I will  place  before  you  wine  fit  for  an 
emperor,  and  bring  you  the  king  of  honest  fellows  for  a guide. 

Ray.  Lead  the  way,  then.  [Music.- — Exeunt  into  the  hotel,  r.  s.  e. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


Enter  Cunegonde,  Agnes,  and  Ursula,  through  the  convent  gates. 
l.  3 e. — Conrad  remains , r.  u.  e. 

Cun.  [r.  c.]  Nay,  nay,  young  lady,  cheer  up  ! do  not  let  your  spirits 
be  so  depressed  at  parting  with  your  holy  mother  ; — recollect  the 
kindness  of  your  aunt  and  uncle,  the  Baroness  and  Baron  of  Linden- 
berg,  and  the  pleasures  that  await  you  in  their  magnificent  castle. 

[Raymond  appears  in  the  balcony  of  the  hotel. 

Agnes,  [c.]  True,  good  Cunegonde  ; but  to  the  dear  abbess  of  St. 
Clare  I owe  the  affection  of  a daughter  : she  has  to  me  supplied  the 
place  of  that  mother  whom  I lost  in  infancy.  Can  I then,  part  with  her, 
perhaps  for  ever,  without  regret?  And  you,  good  mother  Ursula, 
never  will  your  poor  Agnes  forget  your  kindness.  Farewell ! 

Urs.  Farewell,  my  child,  and  may  the  Holy  Virgin,  in  her  own 
good  time,  wean  you  from  the  sinful  delights  of  this  world,  and  return 
you  forever  to  the  peaceful  solitude  of  St.  Clare  ! Farewell  ! 

[Raymond  disappears  from  the  balcony. 

Cun.  Adieu,  dear  mother  ! and  when  a few  more  years  are  passed 
over  my  head,  I,  too,  may  leave  the  temptations  of  mankind,  and  take 
the  vows  of  eternal  virginity  within  the  walls  of  St.  Clare.'  [Music. — 
Agnes  and  Cunegonde  take  an  affectionate  leave  of  Ursula,  who 
exits  through  the  convent  gates , closing  them  after  her.]  Conrad,  fol- 
low us,  but  keep  at  a respectful  distance. 

[Exeunt  with  Agnes,  r.,  followed  by  Conrvd. 

Re-enter  Raymond  from  the  hotel. 

Ray.  [Looking  after  Agnes.]  What  a divinity  ! what  a shape!  how 
sweet  the  expression  of  her  full  dark  eyes ! — Lovety  Agnes  ! never 
shall  I forget  this  interesting  moment.  I have  heard  my  father  men- 
tion the  Baron  Lindenberg  as  an  acquaintance  of  his  youthful  days. 
[Calling.]  What,  ho  ! landlord! 

Re-enter  Marco  from  tne  hotel,  r.  s.  e. 

Pray,  landlord,  where  is  situated  the  chateau  of  the  Baron  de  Linden- 
berg 1 

Mar.  A few  leagues  hence,  signor ; on  the  borders  of  the  forest 
which  you  are  going  to  cross. 

Ray  How  fortunute ! Is  the  guide  ready  1 

Mar.  He  is  waiting  your  honor’s  commands. 

Ray.  Send  him  to  me  with  my  servant,  1 must  instantly  depart. 

Mar.  [Calling  off.]  Hollo  ! Claude ! Claude  ! 

Enter  Claude  from,  the  hotel , habited  as  a postilion,  with  a large  sti- 
letto in  his  girdle,  followed  by  Theodore. 

Here  is  the  gentleman  who  requires  your  services. 

[Marco  eyes  Raymond  with  marked  suspicion. 

Ray.  [To  Claude.]  I wish  you  to  guide  us  through  the  neighboring 
forest ; the  road,  I am  told,  is  both  intricate  and  dangerous  : do  you 
know  it  sufficiently  to  conduct  us  safely  ? 

Claude,  [r.  c.]  Aye,  noble  signor;  I have  travelled  every  part  of 


8 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


the  forest  at  all  hours  for  these  last  thirty  years  ; and  were  it  so  dark 
that  you  could  not  see  your  hand  before  you,  I would  engage  not  to 
take  you  an  inch  out  of  the  way. 

Ray.  ’Tis  well.  [Going  up  to  Theodore,  c.]  We  will  depart  this 
instant. 

Claude.  [ Apart  to  Marco.]  These  are  a couple  of  gudgeons,  whom  it 
will  not  take  much  trouble  to  delude. — By  their  appearance,  they  seem 
to  have  more  money  than  brains.  [To  Raymond.]  This  way,  if  you 
please  ; the  chaise  is  quite  ready,  my  lord. 

[Music. — Exeunt  Claude,  Raymond,  and  Theodore,  r. — Marco  into 
the  hotel,  r.  s.  e. 

SCENE  III. — A thick  forest. — Night. 

Enter  Baptist  a,  listening  for  travellers,  r. 

Bap.  Not  the  least  sound  strikes  my  ear  ; — where  can  my  comrads 
loiter  1 It  is  now  night,  and  since  the  day  has  closed,  not  one  of  my 
band  has  met  my  sight.  I am  left,  like  the  wolf,  to  prowl  alone  and 
seek  my  prey;  like  him,  I am  driven  from  mankind,  and,  like  him, 
make  reprisals  upon  those  whose  ill  fortune  throws  them  in  my  power. 
[A  whistle  is  heard  without , l. — he  answers  it .]  Hark  ! 

[Music. — A smack  of  a whip,  and  a crash  of  a chaise  breaking  down, 

heard  without,  l. — Exit  Baptista,  rejoicing,  r. 

Enter  Claude,  Raymond  and  Theodore,  l. 

The.  Oh,  dear  ! oh,  dear  ! — Well,  of  all  the  unlucky  accidents  which 
could  befall  us,  sure  this  is  the  most  unfortunate  ! Our  chaise  to 
break  down  with  us  in  the  middle  of  a thick  forest  at  midnight ! Had 
I been  the  guide  myself,  I could  not  have  done  a more  foolish  thing. 

Claude.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine  ; I have  not  brought  you  out  of  the 
road  ; and  if  the  axle-tree  of  the  chaise  thinks  proper  to  give  way 
am  I to  blame  for  that  1 

Ray.  A truce  with  altercation  ; — since  the  accident  has  happened, 
think  how  we  best  may  remedy  it.  Is  there  any  village  near  the  spot 
where  we  may  hope  to  get  the  carriage  repaired  I 

Claude.  No,  Signor;  the  nearest  place  is  that  we  have  just  left; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  drag  the  broken  vehicle  so  far  in  the  dark. 

The.  What  can  be  done  1 Ob,  I have  it!  If  your  honour  wih  let 
him  mount  one  of  the  mules,  he  may  endeavour  to  find  his  way  back 
to  Madrid,  and  return  with  assistance. 

Claude.  I should,  perhaps,  lose  myself  in  the  intricacies  of  the  for- 
est ; and  your  master,  waiting  here  for  me,  be  compelled  to  pass  the 
night  in  the  open  air. 

The.  That  he  mtist  do,  I fear,  at  all  events  ; and  my  proposal  is  the 
only  chance  we  have  of  escape. 

Claude.  No,  no ; not  so  bad  off  as  that,  neither.  A few  paces  hence 
there  is  a wood-cutter’s  cottage  ; — the  wood-cutter  is  a friendly,  hon- 
est fellow,  and  I dare  say  he  will  willingly  give  us  a night’s  lodging. 

The.  What  a stupid  fellow  you  must  be  to  puzzle  us  so,  then ! 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


[) 

Really,  my  good  friend,  your  skull  is  of  a very  comfortable  thickness. 
Why  didn't  you  think  of  this  before  1 

Clo.ude.  So  1 did ! but  as  my  friend  is  poor,  and  his  accommoda- 
tions not  what  the  signor  has  been  used  to,  I thought  he  would  not 
accept,  ihe  offer. 

Ray.  . f your  friend  will  afford  us  shelter  till  the  morning,  however 
humblt,  it  may  be,  1 shall  both  thank  and  reward  him  for  it. 

Claude.  He  will  look  for  no  reward,  signor : he  is  a well-meaning 
fellow  ; and  whatever  it  is  in  his  power  to  give,  you  will  be  heartily 
welcome  to. 

The.  St.  Antony  be  praised  ! Then  we  have  escaped  an  adventure 
for  this  night,  however. 

Claude.  [Aside.]  Perhaps  you  have  met  with  one  you  little  expec- 
ted. [To  Raymond.]  Follow  me,  signor.  [ Exeunt , r. 

SCENE  IY. — AWood — a Cottage , l.  c.  f. — a candle  seen  burning  in 
the  chamber  window. 

Music. — Enter  Baptista,  r.,  but  seeing  the  travellers  advancing,  he 
hurries  into  the  cottage , and  closes  the  door  after  him. 

Enter  Claude,  Raymond,  and  Theodore,  r. 

Claude.  Here,  signor,  is  the  house  I spoke  of ; and,  see,  my  honest- 
friend  has  not  yet  retired  to  rest,  for  the  candle  is  still  burning  in  his 
cottage. 

Ray.  Knock,  Theodore  ; the  wind  blows  sharp  and  cold 

[Theodore  crosses  at  the  back,  and  knocks  at  the  cottage  door. 

Claude,  [r.]  Ay,  ay,  signor,  I warrant  honest  Baptista  has  a blaz- 
ing fire,  which  will  soon  warm  your  benumbed  joints.  There  is  no 
scarcity  of  wood  in  this  part  of  the  world. 

The.  [l.]  You  may  say  that  with  justice:  we  are  now  lost  in  one, 
through  choosing  a guide,  whose  head,  I suspect,  is  made  of  the  same 
materials. 

Ray.  [c.]  Peace,  Theodore,  and  knock  again. 

The.  I will  try  again ; but  I believe  the  people  are  all  dead,  or  fast 
asleep.  [Knocking.]  Hollo!  within  there  ! 

Bap.  [Putting  his  head  out  of  the  window.] — Hollo!  without 
there  ! — Who  knocks  so  loud  at  this  late  hour'? 

Claude,  [c.]  It  is  I,  friend  Baptista.  A gentleman,  whose  carriage 
has  broken  down  in  the  forest,  wishes  for  a night’s  lodging : can  you 
accommodate  him  and  his  servant  1 

Bap.  Ah,  is  it  you,  honest  Claude  1 Wait  a moment,  and  I’ll  be 
with  you.  [Retires  from  the  window 

Claude.  I told  you,  signor,  we  should  find  a hearty  welcome. 

Re-enter  Baptista  from  the  cottage , l.  c.  f. 

Bap.  [To  Claude.]  Ah,  my  old  friend  ! I’m  glad  to  see  you.  [To 
Raymond,  with  affected  cordiality.]  Walk  in,  signor;  you  are  wel- 
come to  what  refreshment  my  poor  hovel  can  afford.  I hope  you  will 
excuse  my  not  opening  the  door  before ; but  this  forest  is  infested 


10 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


with  a desperate  gang  of  banditti,  and  I was  fearful  it  might  be  som« 
of  them,  who  had  perceived  a light  through  my  cottage  window. 
Truly,  signor,  you  were  fortunate  in  having  my  friend  Claude  with 
you,  or  you  would  have  run  some  risk  of  falling  into  their  clutches 
But  come,  enter,  signors;  believe  me,  you  are  heartily  welcome. 

[Exeunt  into  the  cottage. 

SCENE  V. — Inside  of  a mean  Cottage — stairs , r.  3 d e. — a fire-place , 

l.  s.  e. — a door , r.  f. — a cupboard , l.  c.  f.  — a couch,  with  an  in- 
fant asleep,  r.  s.  e. — a table,  l.  c. — chairs  and  stools. 

Marguerette  discovered  watching  the  child,  r. 

Mar.  Sweet  babe ! thou  sleep’st  unconscious  of  the  pangs  which 
read  thy  mother’s  heart.  Alas  ! that  I should  be  driven  to  curse  the 
f itlier  of  my  child — a fiend  unworthy  of  the  name  of  man  ! By  bru- 
tal force  he  made  me  his;  by  force  detains  me  here,  to  witness  deeds 
of  horror,  that  harrow  up  my  soul ! [Kneeling,  j All  gracious  Heaven, 
hear  my  prayer!  For  three  long  years  have  I groaned  beneath  a 
weight  of  guilt:  Oh  ! release  me  from  it,  and  solemnly  do  I promise 
to  dedicate  this  infant  to  thy  service  ! Oh  ! may  the  piety  of  his  fu- 
ture life  wash  away  the  infamy  of  his  birth  ! 

f Music. — She  kisses  the  infant , and  slowly  ascends  the  stairs,  r.  3 d e. 

Enter  Baptista,  Raymond,  and  Theodore,  carrying  a portman- 
teau, R.  D.  F. 

Bap.  You  see,  signor,  my  hovel,  as  I told  you,  is  poor,  but  comfor- 
table ; and  such  as  it  is,  you  are  welcome. — Pray  be  seated,  and  my 
wife  shall  bring  you  some  refreshment.  [Calling.]  Marguerette!  Mar- 
guerette, 1 say ! 

Re-enter  Marguerette,  r. 

Mar.  [Aside.}  Ha!  another  victim ! 

Bap.  Why,  what  are  you  about,  wife  1 Don’t  you  see  that  we  have 
strangers  1 Come,  stir  about,  and  get  something  ready  for  supper ; 
the  gentleman  is  half  famished  ; and  if  my  old  friend  Claude  had  not 
brought  him  here,  he  must  have  passed  the  night  in  the  forest. 

Mar.  [Sorrowfully.]  Would  to  heaven  that  he  had  passed  it  any- 
where but  beneath  this  roof ! 

Bap.  [Angrily.]  How! 

Ray.  Your  pardon ; let  not  my  presence  create  dispute.  If  our 
company,  my  good  friend,  be  displeasing  to  your  wife,  we  will  in- 
stantly quit  your  hospitable  roof. 

Bap.  No.  no,  si°no\  heed  her  not;  she  is  crabbed  and  hasty,  but 
she  will  make  you  we1 come  notwithstanding — will  you  not,  my  old 
lass'?  [Ap'xrt  to  her. J Another  word,  and  [Showing  a dagger.]  I will 
use  effectual  means  to  silence  you  ! 

Mar.  [Aside.]  What  shall  I do  ? My  soul  sickens  with  horror  at 
the  frequent  scenes  of  blood  which  stain  this  guilty  spot ! 

Bap.  Where  can  Robert  and  Jaques  loiter  ? The  night  is  dark, 
and  I am  apprehensive  that  they  may  meet  with  evil-disposed  people 
ui  the  forest. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


11 


Mar.  Oil,  fear  not:  they  cannot  meet  with  any  worse  disposed  than 
the  u selves. 

Bap.  [Apart  to  her,  fiercely.]  Marguerette!  [To  Raymond.]  They 
are  my  sons,  signor,  by  a former  marriage;  therefore  my  wife  esteems 
them  not,  though  they  are  two  as  fine  young  men  as  any  this  day  in 
Spain; — rather  rough  and  unpolished,  to  be  sure,  but  honest. 

The.  [Gaping. ] Yah!  yah! 

Bap.  You  seem  sleepy,  signor.  You  can  lie  down  on  the  bed  while 
my  wife  prepares  supper,  if  you  choose  it. 

The.  With  all  my  heart. 

Bap.  Wife,  show  the  young  man  to  his  chamber — the  small  one: 
[Significantly.]  you  understand  me  1 
Mar.  I am  busy. 

Bap.  Well,  if  you  are,  you  still  have  time  enough  to  do  as  I order 
you.  Come ! 

Music — He  gives  Marguerette  a lamp,  and  she  ascends  the  stairs 
sullenly , followed  by  Theodore. 

Enter  Robert  and  .Jaques,  r.  d.  f. — they  start  on  seeing  Raymond, 
and  place  their  hands  on  their  daggers — Baptista  throws  himself 
between  them , to  prevent  Raymond’s  observing  them. — Re-enter 
Marguerette  down  the  stairs. 

Bap.  [c.]  My  sons,  signor;  they  were  somewhat  surprised  at  see- 
ing a stranger,  but  the)’’  will  be  proud  to  pay  their  respects  to  you. 

Ray.  [Coming  forward,  and  sitting  l.J  I am  glad  they  have  ar- 
rived in  safety  ; though  I perceive  they  travel  well  armed. 

Rob.  [r.  c.]  Why,  yes,  signor;  it  is  a precaution  we  are  used  to, 
though  I believe  needless ; for  I never  yet  was  molested. 

Jaques.  [r.  corner.]  May  be  so ; but  no  person  can  tell  what  may 
befall  him,  even  when  he  thinks  himself  most  secure. 

Music. — Raymond  dozes — Robert  goes  cautiously  behind , and  at- 
tempts to  stab  him — Marguerette  advances  quickly,  and  prevents 
him. 

Mar.  [Shaking  Raymond  on  the  shoulder.]  Signor,  you  are  fa- 
tigued : come,  I will  conduct  you  to  your  chamber. 

Ray.  I thank  you ; — an  hour’s  rest  will  refresh  me. 

Mar.  And  in  that  time  your  supper  will  be  ready  for  you.  Come, 
siguor. 

Music. — She  takes  the  candle , and  prepares  to  show  him  the  way, 
when  Robert  who  has  observed  her  with  suspicion,  snatches  the  can- 
dle from  her. 

Rob.  Mother.  I will  show  the  gentleman  to  his  room ; do  you  remain 
below.  [To  Raymond.]  Come,  signor;  lie  down  and  refresh  yourself, 
and  before  your  supper  is  ready,  my  life  on’t  you’ll  be  quite  another 
man. 

Music. — Marguerette  slips  up  the  stairs  unperceived — Raymond 
ascends,  lighted  by  Robert. — Exeunt  Baptista  and  Jacques,  r.  d.  f. 


12 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


SCENE  VI. — A Wood  and  outside  of  Baptista’s  Cottage , as  before. 

Enter  Baptista  and  Jacques  from  the  cottage , l.  c.  f. 

Jaq.  I am  doubtful  of  Marguerette,  father ; methinks  she  seems  but 
little  disposed  to  aid  our  intentions. 

j Bap.  True  ; but  she  dare  not  counteract  them  ; for  she  knows  her 
own  life  would  be  the  forfeit.  You  say  there  are  two  thousand  pis- 
toles in  the  portmanteau  1 

Jaq.  So  the  servant  boasted  at  the  inn. 

Bap.  Well,  then,  success  to  the  division  of  the  booty ! 

Jaq.  Division  ! Why,  is  the  landlord  to  have  any  share  of  itl 

Bap.  To  be  sure  he  is;  his  assistance  is  necessary  to 

Jaq.  Why,  I rather  think  it  too  bad  that  we  are  to  have  all  the  trou- 
ble and  risk,  and  he  all  the  comfort  and  profit. 

Bap.  For  shame,  son  ! how  can  you  be  so  selfish  ! We  have  bound 
ourselves  by  oath,  and  we  have  never  been  mean  enough  to  violate  it. 
Consider  our  honor ; — let  us  always  act  with  justice  and  humanity. 
By  the  bye,  while  Robert  is  dispatching  the  master,  I think  you  had 
better  go  and  rob  the  servant ; it  will  be  pastime  till  supper  is  ready. 

Jaq.  But  about  this  division — I can’t  see 

Bap.  Silence,  boy  ! — Would  you  bring  disgrace  upon  our  family  1 
Go,  and  do  as  I order  you.  [ Exeunt  into  the  cottage. 

SCENE  VII. — A miserable  Chamber  in  the  Cottage — a door,  r.  f. — • 
a window  with  iron  bars,  c.  f. — a bed,  l.  3 d e.,  with  a chair  and 
table  close  to  it. 

Marguerette  discovered  looking  in  at  the  door. 

Mar.  What  can  I do  1 how  can  I preserve  him  1 They  are  ascend- 
ind  the  stairs  : I must  be  quick.  I dare  not  show  myself.  Ha  ! the 
pillow  ! [ She  draws  off  the  case,  and  the  pillow  appears  bloody.  ] 

Should  he  perceive  it,  stained  as  it  is  with  the  blood  of  numerous  vic- 
tims, who  have  fallen  by  Robert’s  murderous  hands,  it  will  at  least 
put  him  on  his  guard. 

Robert.  [ Without,  r.  u.  e.  ] This  way,  signor. 

[Marguerette  conceals  herself  behind  the  bed  curtains. 

Enter  Robert  and  Raymond,  d.  f. 

Rob.  [Placing  the  light  on  the  table.]  Here  is  your  bed  signor;  you 
will  not  be  the  first  stranger  that  has  slept  in  it — aye,  and  soundly,  too. 

Ray.  I do  not  doubt  it.  If  you  will  retire,  I will  endeavor  to  get  a 
little  repose. 

Rob.  Aye,  aye,  I will  leave  you  ; and  if  you  please  to  give  me  your 
sword,  I will  take  care  of  it  for  you. 

Ray.  My  sword  ! 

Rob.  Aye,  your  sword : you  can  have  no  use  for  it  while  you  sleep 
Ray.  [ Pointedly .]  True  ; and,  while  I sleep,  what  use  can  you  have 
for  it  1 

Rob.  [Aside.]  Confusion  ! [Hesitating.]  Me ! — Oh,  ah ! — me  ! Cer 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES.  18 

lainly,  none.  I offered  out  of  civility  to  take  care  of  it  for  you  : if 
you  do  not  choose  to  part  with  it,  that’s  another  thing. 

Ray.  I certainly  shall  not  part  with  it. 

Rob.  [Crossing  to  r ] Oh,  very  well ; as  you  please  ; we  are  in  no 
want  ot  arms,  though  1 think  your  refusal  has  an  odd  appearance ; — 
but  do  as  you  like.  [Exit,  d.  f. 

Ray.  I like  not  the  youth  who  has  just  now  left  me ; his  ferocious 
glance  chills  my  blood.  The  remembrance,  too,  of  the  lovely  Agnes 
employs  my  busy  fancy.  [Lying  on  the  bed. J I will  endeavor,  by  a 
short  repose,  to  chase  away  my  gloomy  apprehensions. 

Music. — Re-enter  Robert,  d.  f. — he  advances  cautiously  towards  the 
bed  with  a drawn  dagger — Marguerette  from  behind  the  cur- 
tains, shakes  Raymond,  who  starts  up. 

Ray.  [Leaping  forward,  and  seizing  Robert  by  the  collar.]  How 
is  this  1 — What  has  brought  you  here! 

Rob.  [Panic  struck,  and  hesitating.]  I — I — I came  to  fetch — the 
lamp. 

* Ray.  [Firmly.]  Let  it  remain. 

Rob.  Cannot  you  sleep  in  the  dark  1 

Ray.  I do  not  choose  to  be  left  without  a light. 

Rob.  It’s  wanted  below. 

Ray.  Then  I will  go  down  too. 

Rob.  No,  no,  stay  where  you  are ; my  mother  is  busy,  and  don’t 
want  to  be  troubled  with  you.  She  sent  me  for  the  lamp  but  she  must 
do  without  it.  [Aside,  going.]  Curses  light  on  him  ! [Exit,  d.  f. 

[Raymond  follows  Robert  to  the  door. 
Mar.  [Coming  forward,  c.J  The  blood  thirsty  villain  ! 

Ray.  [Starting.]  Ha!  how  did  you  enter  ! 

Mar.  Hush ! one  word  and  you  are  lost  for  ever  ! I wish  to  save 
you.  Examine  the  pillow  of  your  bed.  [Going  towards  the  door.] 
The  wretch  who  has  just  left  you 

Re-enter  Robert,  d.  f.,  meeting  her — they  are  mutually  struck  with 
surprise. 

Rob.  What  brought  you  here  1 

Mar.  ^Faltering.]  I — I came — to — to 

Rob.  To  do  what  1 — Why  do  you  hesitate  ! [ With  savage  impa- 

tience.] What  was  your  errand  here  ! 

Mar.  Why  do  you  ask  1 [A  pause — then  recollecting  herself,  and 
drawing  a cap  from  her  bosom.]  See  you  not  this  cap  ! I brought  it 
for  the  stranger. 

Rob.  [Snatching  it  from  her.]  It  may  be  so.  You  are  wanted  be- 
low. [Throwing  it  to  Raymond.]  There’s  the  cap.  [To  Margue- 
rette.] Now,  come  with  me;  I know  not  any  business  which  you 
can  have  with  the  stranger. — Come,  I say  ! [Exit,  forcing  her  out,  d.  f. 

Music. — Raymond  hurries  to  the  bed,  seizes  the  pillow,  and  seems 
horror-  stricken . 

Ray.  [^.tawing  his  sword,  and  rushing  to  the  window, o.  f.]  Ha  * 


14 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


the  window  secured  ! Then  am  I in  a den  of  robbers  ! but  my  good 
sword  is  still  left  for  my  protection,  and  I will  not  part  with  life  un- 
less it  be  dearly  purchased.  Footsteps  again  ! I will  feign  to  sleep, 
yet  keep  good  guard  against  the  assassin’s  steel ! 

Music. — He  goes  softly  to  the  door  and  listens — then  retires  to  the  bed 
and  lays  down  upon  his  sword. 

Re-enter  Robert,  d.  f.  followed  by  Marguerette,  watching  him — 

he  advances  to  the  bed , and  is  about  to  stab  Raymond,  when  Mar- 
guerette overturns  the  table , and  retreats  hastily  behind  the  door. 

Ray.  [ Starting  up , and  holding  his  sword  tfo  Robert’s  breast,  j Why 
am  I thus  continually  disturbed  l — What  can  be  the  reason  of  this 
second  intrusion  1 

Rob.  [Surlily.]  Supper  is  on  the  table:  if  you  wish  for  any,  come 
down  ; if  you  don’t,  stay  here  and  sleep. 

Ray.  That  I find  to  be  impossible : you  will  not  leave  me  a moment 
to  myself. 

Rob.  I come  not  without  a cause.  I will  carry  the  lamp  and  your 
sword  for  you. 

Ray.  I have  already  told  you  I do  not  choose  to  part  with  it. 

Rob.  You  are  strangely  suspicious,  methinks.  If  you  will  carry  one, 
then  you  may  carry  both.  I shall  not  wait  here  for  you  till  the  sup- 
per is  cold.  [Exit.  d.  f. 

Ray.  How  horrible  is  my  situation ! Their  intent  is  clear — they  aim 
at  my  life  ! How  shall  I act  I 

Mar.  [Coming  forward,  r ] Signor,  your  life  is  for  the  present  pre- 
served : betray  not  the  least  suspicion,  or  you  will  instantly  be  sacri- 
ficed ! 

Ray.  My  generous  preserver  ! how  is  it  I meet  you  an  associate 
with  such  monsters  1 

Mar.  There  is  no  time  for  explanation  : necessity,  not  choice,  has 
made  me  what  1 am.  Yet  will  I save  your  life,  or  perish  with  you. 
f Taking  up  the  lamp.]  Follow  me ! 

[Exeunt  d.  f.,  Marguerette  encouraging  Raymond  to  follow  her. 

SCENE  VIII. — A thick  Wood. ^-Moonlight. 

Enter  Cunegonde  and  Agnes,  l.,  followed  by  Conrad  and  Marco. 

Cun.  Holy  St.  Bridget  defend  me ! Sure  our  troubles  are  never  to 
have  an  end  ! Who  could  have  suspected  such  a misfortune  1 Why, 
the  road  from  the  convent  of  St.  Clair  to  the  castle  of  Lindenburg  is 
as  plain  as  the  nose  on  one’s  face ; and  yet,  this  stupid,  deaf  fool  of  a 
guide  contrived  to  lose  it ! 

Agnes.  Patience,  dear  Cunegonde! — By  your  loud  complaints,  you 
only  aggravate  the  danger  of  our  situation. — Should  the  forest,  as  we 
are  informed,  be  the  haunt  of  banditti 

Cun.  Banditti!  [Crying.]  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear! — 0 that  I had  dedi- 
cated myself  to  a life  of  perpetual  virginity  in  the  holy  convent  of  St. 
Clair ! — Then  should  I have  escaped  the  dangers  with  which  my  inno- 
cence is  surrounded  ! [To  Marco. J And  you,  sirrah,  what  can  you  say 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


15 


for  yourself  1 — How  can  we  get  out  of  the  dilemma  you  have  brought 
us  into  1 

Mar.  [To  Conrad,  affectin.q  deafness.]  Eh  1 what  1 — Did  her  lady- 
ship address  herself  to  me  1 

Cun.  Certainly  her  ladyship  did.  Was  ever  poor  governante  so 
plagued  with  idiots  and  knaves  as  myself  1 — And  you,  Conrad,  why 
you’re  stupid — absolutely  petrified.  What  is  to  be  done  1 what  course 
are  we  next  to  take  1 

Con.  Really,  madam,  I cannot  tell. 

Mar  [Aside.]  What  can  have  become  of  the  band  1 

Agnes.  [ Looking  off,  r.J  Be  of  good  heart,  madam.  I surely  es- 
pied the  form  of  a man  passing  down  the  close  walk  to  the  right. 

Cun.  [ Screaming .]  Ha!  a man.!  a robber!  Oh,  holy  St.  Clare, 
protect  me  ! — me,  one  of  the  most  virtuous  of  thy  votaries  ! — Oh,  save 
me  from  his  unhallowed  touch  ! [ Clings  around  the  neck  of  Conrad 

Enter  Claude,  with  a dark  lantern,  r. 

Claude.  [Aside]  Methought  I heard  female  voices. — Ha!  Marco 
here!  Then  I know  my  cue.  [Advancing. J Who  goes  there  1 Ah, 
ladies  ! I entreat  your  pardon  ; but  hearing  voices,  l feared  it  might 
be  some,  whose  evil  designs  caused  them  to  wander  in  the  forest. 

Cun.  [Trembling  behind  Conrad.]  Ob  ! oh  ! oh  ! 

Agnes.  We  are  wanderers  through  misfortune,  not  intention.  Cross- 
ing the  forest  from  Madrid  to  the  castle  of  Lindenberg,  our  servant 
and  guide  have  deviated  form  the  path.  If  you  can  assist  us  in  re- 
gaining the  road,  you  shall  be  amply  rewarded  for  your  service. 

Claude.  That,  lady,  is  not  in  my  power ; I am  ignorant  of  the  road 
you  mention  ; — but  there  is  an  honest  peasant,  whose  cottage  stands 
but  a few  paces  hence,  who  will  not  only  give  you  shelter  till  the 
morning,  but,  for  a trifling  recompense,  lead  you  beyond  the  intricacies 
of  the  forest. 

Cun.  [Crossing  to  Claude.]  Oh  ! take  us  thither  instantly,  young 
man.  You  are  the  guardian  angel  sent  to  preserve  my  life  ! 

Claude.  Bless  you,  madam,  I’m  no  angel! — I’m  only  a poor  devil, 
who  earns  a livelihood  by  felling  timber  in  the  forest ; — but  I will 
conduct  the  young  lady,  if  you  have  no  objection.  I suppose,  madam, 
you  are  her  mother. 

Cun.  What  1 mother!  Pray,  sir,  look  in  my  face,  and  tell  me  if 
there  are  any  lines  in  it  which  indicate  my  being  the  mother  of  a girl 
like  that  1 

Claude.  I ask  your  pardon  for  the  mistake,  madam  : I now  perceive 
you  are  her  grandmother. 

Cun.  Pooh  ! grandmother,  indeed  ! at  my  time  of  life — in  the  bloa- 
sorn  of  my  days  ! I am  her  governante,  it  is  true,  though  there  is  very 
little  difference  in  our  ages. — But  which  path  must  we  pursue  to  the 
cottage  you  mention  1 

Claude.  That  by  which  I came  hither.  If  you  please,  I will  return 
with  you,  and  show  you  the  spot. 

Cun.  With  all  my  heart.  Come,  Lady  Agnes.  Mother,  forsooth  ! 
We  are  in  a hopeful  situation,  truly,  with  one  guide  as  deaf  as  a post 
and  t’other  as  blind  as  a bat ! 


16 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


Claude.  [To  Conrad.]  Come,  comrade;  bear  the  light,  and  on  be- 
fore us. 

[Exeunt,  r.,  Conrad  taking  the  lantern , and  lighting  Agnes  and 
Cunegonde,  who  are  followed  by  Claude  and  Marco,  making  sig 
nificant  signs  to  each  other. 

SCENE  IX. — The  Lower  Room  in  Baptista’s  cottage , as  before. 

Music. — Baptista  and  Jaques  discovered. 

Enter  Robert  down  the  stairs , r.  3 d e. 

Bap.  [To  Robert.]  What  success,  my  lad  1 
Jag.  Is  he  dispatched  1 

Rob.  No.  I believe  all  the  fiends  of  hell  are  in  league  against  c 
Curses  on  the  officious  Marguerette  ! She  has  more  than  once  ^ 
vented  me.  Why  did  you  not  detain  her  below  1 

Bap.  No  matter.  You  will  mar  all  by  your  impetuosity:  slo.v  t -d 
sure  is  my  maxim.  When  he  sleeps,  it  may  be  done  without  diffRul  y. 
Jag.  Hush  ! they  come. 

Music. — Enter  Raymond  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Marguerette, 
carrying  a lamp,  which  she  places  on  a shelf. — -A  knocking  heard 
at  the  door,  r.  f.-“ Baptista  opens  it. 

Enter  Claude,  conducting  in  Agnes  and.  Cunegonde. 

Bap.  How  now  1 

Ray.  [Aside.]  By  all  that’s  lovely  ! ’tis  the  very  angel  that  1 beheld 
from  the  hotel  quitting  the  convent  at  Madrid ! 

Claude.  Don’t  be  alarmed,  friend  Baptista.  This  lady  and  her  at- 
tendants have  lost  their  road  in  the  forest ; — I fortunately  chanced  to 
meet  with  them,  and  assured  them  of  finding  a welcome  at  your  cottage. 

Bap.  [Hesitating.]  Why,  yes;  but  you  know  we  have  already  this 
gentleman  and  his  servant;  our  beds  are  full. 

Agnes.  How  unfortunate  ! 

Ray.  Nay,  gentle  lady,  let  not  that  distress  you : such  acc  mimoda- 
tions  as  were  meant  for  me,  are  at  your  service,  if  you  will  deign  to 
accept  them. 

Agnes.  Signor,  I thank  your  courtesy. 

Ray.  Fair  lady,  I deserve  no  thanks.  [Leading  her  to  the  fire-place, 
l.]  It  is  the  duty  of  man  to  forego  his  own  comforts,  to  shield  from 
distress  a lovely  woman. 

Cun.  Oh.  holy  St.  Bridget!  what  a pain  was  there! — Oh,  my  poor 
head  ! — I have  caught  my  death  in  this  precious  forest.  [Eyeing  the 
table.]  and  I dare  say  there  is  not  a drop  of  cordial  to  be  had  for  love 
or  money. 

Bap.  I have  a small  bottle  of  fine  cherry  brandy,  signora ; perhaps 
a drop  of  that  might  relieve  you. 

Cun.  Mercy  ! — Is  there  anything  in  my  appearance  to  indicate  that 
I would  swallow  such  unholy  liquor  1 

Bap.  Unholy ! — I wish  every  hole  in  my  skin  was  full  of  it,  for  I 
always  find  it  the  best  medicine  ; and  there’s  nothing  else  to  be  got. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES.  17 

Cun.  Well,  the  urgency  of  the  case  must  plead  my  excuse  ; so  you 
may  just  fill  me  a thimble  full,  and  I will  try  to  get  it  down. 

Bap.  [Filling  the  glass,  and  handing  it  to  her. J That’s  right,  sig- 
nora ; grapple  with  the  spirit,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  conquer  it  ! 

Cun.  [Drinking.]  Really,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  I expected. 

Bap.  You  had  better  have  t’other  glass.  [Handing  it  to  her.]  Come, 
come,  signora,  drink  ! — The  psalm  says,  ’tis 

“ A balm  for  cv’ry  wound, — 

A cordial  for  our  fears.” 

Cun.  Well,  if  you  think  so — [Drinking. J Oh,  dear!  my  poor  head 
is  shattered  into  a thousand  pieces  ! 

Bap.  A little  rest  will  restore  you ; there  is  a bed  ready 

Cun.  The  Virgin  be  praised  ! 

Bap.  Wife,  light  this  lady  to  her  chamber.  [ To  Cunegonde.]  Would 
you  like  to  take  another  glass,  madam  'l 

Cun.  [Going.]  St.  Bridget  forbid!  [Returning.]  Yet  in  case  I 
should  be  taken  ill  in  the  night,  you  may  as  well  give  me  the  bottle, 
to  place  by  my  bedside.  The  saints  preserve  you  all,  and  give  you  a 
good  night’s  rest ! 

[Music. — Exeunt  Marguerette  and  Cunegonde  up  the  stairs — th( 

others  all  sit  to  supper  at  the  table,  l.,  and  Marguerette  returns. 

Bap.  Wife,  bring  me  the  bottle  which  is  sealed  with  yellow  wax' 

Mur.  [Hesitating .]  With  yellow  1 

Bap.  Yes;  you  understand  me ? — Bring  it,  and  instantly  ! 

[She  reluctantly  gives  it  to  him. 

Mar.  [Apart  to  Raymond,  passing  him , l.]  Do  not  drink  ! 

Bap.  [To  Raymond.]  Come,  signor,  here  is  some  champagne  whic'k 
I have  had  by  me  many  years ; I never  bring  it  out  but  upon  oxtrs  > 
ordinary  occasions ; and  as  your  supper  is  coarse,  this  may  ) elp  to 
give  it  a relish.  [Music. — He  pours  out  wine — Agnes  drinl  s,  but 
Raymond,  unseen,  throws  his  upon  the  ground.]  Is  it  not  most  excel- 
lent, signor'?. 

Rag.  It  is,  indeed.  Champagne  is  a wine  to  which  I am  extremely 
partial. 

Bap.  And  I assure  you.  this  has  some  very  extraordinary  virtues. 
[To  Agnes.]  I hope,  madam,  that  you  approve  of  it. 

Agnes.  [Drowsily.]  It  is  excellent,  yet  rather  powerful. 

[She  falls  asleep. 

Bap.  I think  it  the  better  for  that,  madam.  [To  Raymond.]  Have 
you  traveled  far,  signor  I 

Ray.  From  a league  on  the  other  side  Madrid. 

[Marguerette,  unperceived  by  the  banditi,  motions  Raymond  to  af- 
fect to  sleep,  which  he  does. 

Bap.  ’Tis  well : the  wine  has  taken  effect. 

Rob.  [Rising.]  I will  dispatch  him,  then. 

Bap.  No ; leave  me  to  deal  with  the  sleepers ; they  are  sure  work, 
and  unable  to  make  resistance.  You,  with  Jaques  and  CU  «Me,  hasten 


18 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


into  the  forest,  and  endeavor  to  overpower  the  servants  of  the  lady, 
who  are  with  the  carriage ; lest  they  should  come  in  the  morning, 
and  ask  questions  we  should  not  like  to  answer. 

Rob , Be  it  so.  Come.  lads. 

[Music. — Exeunt  Robert,  Jaques,  and  Claude,  r.  d.  r. 

Mar.  [ Shaking  Raymond,  l.]  Now  ! 

[Baptista  draws  his  dagger , and  crosses  quickly  to  Agnes,  and  as  he 
is  about  to  strike,  Raymond  starts  up,  and  arrests  his  arm — they 
struggle — the  dagger  drops — Marguerette  hastily  snatches  it  up, 
stabs  Baptista,  and  he  falls. 

Mar.  [ Dropping  on  her  knees.]  All  gracious  Powers ! pronour.ee 
my  pardon! — The  villain  sleeps  in  death! — Would  he  had  fallen  by 
any  other  hand  ! [To  Raymond,  rising.]  Let  us  instantly  away  ! flight 
alone  can  save  us. 

Ray.  But  should  we  meet  the  other  villains  in  the  forest 

Mar.  Here,  under  the  stairs,  is  a private  way,  which  leads  to  a 
road  quite  contrary  to  the  one  the  robbers  have  taken. 

Music. — Marguerette  ascends  the  stairs,  and  returns  with  her  in- 
fant, Theodore,  and  Cunegonde — she  points  out  to  Theodore  the 
private  passage  under  the  stairs,  who  exits,  followed  by  the  others , 
Raymond  carrying  Agnes  in  his  arms. 

Re-enter  Robert,  Jaques,  and  Claude,  r.  d,  f. 

Rob.  Confusion ! — Everything  conspires  to  cross  us  : the  servants 
doubtless  suspected  us,  or  they  would  not  have  fled.  I hope,  at  least, 
my  father  has  made  sure  work  with  those  he  had  in  his  power. 

Jaq.  [Seeing  the  body  of  Baptista.]  ’Sdeath ! what  have  we  here  1 
My  father  murdered ! 

Rob.  Ha  ! where  is  the  stranger  1 Marguerette  shall  dearly  pay 
for  this ! 

[Music. — He  rushes  up  the  stairs — Jaques  and  Claude  kneel  by  the 
body  of  Baptista. 

Rob.  [Descending  the  stairs.]  They  have  all  escaped  ! let  us  in- 
stantly pursue  them  ; they  cannot  be  far  from  hence.  I swear  to  fol- 
low them  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  revenge  the  death  of  my  father! 
Jaq.  We  all  swear  to  revenge  his  death,  or  fall  In  the  attempt  1 

[Music. — They  kneel,  and  cross  their  daggers  over  the  body. 


END  OF  ACT  I. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


19 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Outside  of  the  gates  of  Lindenberg  Castle — a window  in 
the  wall , l.  u.  e. 

M-jsic. — Enter  Raymond,  Theodore,  and  Marguerette,  through  the 
gates , which  are  opened  and  closed  by  a servant. 

The.  Well,  I declare,  I never  was  more  civilly  turned  out  of  doors 
i t all  my  life  ! We  are  like  to  make  a hopeful  journey  of  it.  The 
first  place  we  stop  at,  we  are  near  having  our  throats  cut ; and  at  the 
second,  ere  we  have  well  refreshed  ourselves,  we  are  turned  out,  and 
the  gates  barred  against  us,  as  if  they  thought  we  were  going  to  cut 
theirs ! 

Ray.  Agnes — dear  Agnes ! farewell ! Come,  Marguerette,  you  shall 
accompany  me  to  my  father’s ; he  will  take  a pleasure  in  repaying 
the  kindness  you  have  shown  his  son.  Trust  me,  you  will  not  expe- 
rience such  ingratitude  as  we  have  received  from  yonder  lord. 

Mar.  Don  Alphonso,  I only  wish  a safe  conveyance  to  Strasbourg, 
where  I have  relations  ; I would  not  willingly  give  you  further  trouble. 

Ray.  That  must  not  be.  Allow  me  to  show  my  gratitude,  and,  in 
some  measure,  make  recompense  to  you  for  the  injustice  of  others. 
[..4  guitar  is  heard  within  the  castle.]  Hark  ! [A  paper  is  lowered 
from  the  window , l.  u.  e.J  Ha  ! that  is  the  window  of  Agnes’  apart- 
ment! [ Taking  up  the  paper  and  reading.]  “ Don  Alphonso , — To- 
morrow lam  to  be  immured  for  life  within  the  walls  of  a convent. 
My  heart  revolts  at  the  idea  of  taking  the  veil ; and  / have  no  other 
alternative  but  to  confide  in  your  honor.  At  one  o'clock  at  midnight  I 
will  leave  my  chamber,  disguised  as  the  Bleeding  Nun  ; which  will 
ensure  the  certainty  of  my  escape.  If  you  are  sincere , meet  me  with- 
out the  castle  gates ; if  not,  leave  me  to  my  fate. — Agnes.”  Excel- 
lent device  ! — Fear  not,  sweet  Agnes  ! I will  be  punctual ; and  should 
our  project  be  successful 

The.  Oh,  dear  ! oh,  dear  !— Why,  surely,  sir,  the  Lady  Agnes  is  not 
going  to  have  the  temerity  to  personate  the  ghost'?  Holy  St.  Francis! 
even  in  the  short  space  of  time  they  suffered  us  to  remain  at  the  cas- 
tle, I heard  enongh  concerning  her  to  make  me  keep  at  a respectful 
distance. 

Ray.  Take  courage,  Theodore  ! — My  lovely  spirit  has  nothing  ter- 
rific about  her ; — and  if  borrowing  the  ghost’s  robes  will  answer  the 
purpose  of  uniting  two  hearts  who  sincerely  love  each  other,  I shall 
for  ever  bless  the  Bleeding  Nun  of  Lindenberg  ! [Exeunt,  r.  s.  e. 

SCENE  II. — A Wood — Night — Whistling  heard  without. 

Enter  Robert,  l.  and  Jaques  and  Claude,  r. 

Rob.  Who  goes  there  I 

Tag.  Robert  I 

lob.  The  same.  Where  is  Claude  I 

raq.  He  is  here. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES.’ 


behests.  But  I could  not  bear  to  hear  you  doubt  my  master’s  honor  ; 
and  I knew  when  you  heard  the  name  of  Raymond,  all  your  doubts 
must  cease.  Dishonor  was  never  yet  coupled  with  that  name. 

Agnes'  Most  true ; yet  still  his  continued  absence  fills  my  mind 
with  serious  alarm.  [The  Robbers  cautiously  descend  from  the  trees. 

Rob.  [Apart  to  Jaques  and  Claude.]  Steady,  boys  ! steady  ! 
Here  are  a couple  of  our  runaways  ; they  shall  not  now  escape  us. 

The.  Come,  madam  ; — when  we  have  passed  yonder  thicket,  we  shall 
see  before  us  the  spires  of  Madrid. 

Rob.  [Crossing  to  them..]  Stand! 

Agnes.  [Starting.]  Ha  ! robbers  ! Alas  ! for  what  am  I reserved. 

Rob.  Lady,  you  may  haply  recollect  us  : we  know  our  obligations 
to  you,  and  doubt  not  but  we  will  repay  them. 

The.  We  know  likewise  your  kind  intentions  towards  us ; and  there- 
fore do  n >t  suppose  you  the  least  in  our  debt. 

Rob.  Silence,  fool ! — You  are  now  within  our  power  : if  you  again 
escape,  it  shall  be  our  own  fault.  [To  Jaques  and  Claude.]  Drag 
them  to  the  cave  ! 

The.  [Drawing  his  sword.]  The  first  that  approaches  this  lady  shall 
make  his  way  through  my  body  ! So  if  ye  are  cowards  enough  to  as- 
sail one  man,  come  on,  all  of  ye  at  once  ! 

Rob.  No.  I alone  will  oppose  you.  Perhaps  ’twas  your  hand  that 
plunged  the  dagger  into  the  heart  of  my  father.  Revenge  will  nerve 
mine  in  return  ! 

The.  Have  at  you  then! — Robber  or  devil,  you  shall  find  that  The- 
odore is  not  easily  to  be  conquered. 

[Music. — They  encounter — Jaques  and  Claude,  drag  Agnes  into  the 
cavern , r.  u.  e. — Theodore  and  Robert  exeunt,  fighting . r. 

Enter  Raymond  and  Marguerette,  l. 

Ray.  It  is  in  vain — nowheie  can  I behold  her! — Agnes!  dearest 
Agnes  ! what  can  be  your  fate  I 

Mar.  Calm  yourself,  signor  : the  absence  of  your  servant  proves 
that  he  is  with  her,  and  fear  not  but  Theodore  will  protect  her. 

Ray.  Alas  ! may  she  not  want  other  protection  'l  Her  delicate  frame 
will  sink  beneath  the  fatigue  of  wandering  through  the  forest.  Per- 
haps she  may 

Mar.  Hark ! I hear  footsteps ! Should  it  be  our  enemies — Let  us 
instantly  conceal  ourselves  ! [They  retire  up,  l. 

Re-enter  Theodore,  r. 

The.  I am  quite  spent  and  faint.  I could  soon  have  mastered  one ; 
bm  when  they  all  set  upon  me,  I was  fain  to  take  to  my  heels,  and  no 
di  i p ace  either  : no  man  is  obliged  to  fight  against  odds. 

Rxy.  [Coming  forward.]  Can  it  be  I Theodore,  have  you  not  seen 
the  Lady  Agnes  1 

The.  What,  my  master!  St.  Dennis  be  praised  ! Now  I fear  them 
not,  if  there  are  fifty  of  them.  Follow  me  instantly,  signor : the  three 
villains  whom  we  met  at  the  cottage  in  the  forest  have  just  forced  the 
Lady  Agnes  from  me,  and  confined  her  in  a cave  not  far  distant. 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


21 


b,  'j! ed  ; but  surely  lie  waited  not  so  Ions',  as  to  be  out  of  patience  . 
The.  My  life  upon  it,  madam  he  is  close  at  hand. 

Agnes.  This  tardiness,  at  a moment  when  he  knew  my  liberty  was 
at  stake,  betrays  an  indifference  to  my  fate  that  I expected  not. 

The  I will  lead  yoivto  him  instantly  ; — you  may  trust  yourself  with 
me  without  fear,  my  lady. 

Agues.  I have  no  other  resource.  [Aside,  going.}  Alas!  how  has 
my  imprudence  involved  me  ! [Exeunt,  r. 

SCENE  IX.— A front  Wood. 

Music . — ‘Enter  the  Bleeding  Nun,  l,,  Raymond  still  following,  and, 
endeavoring  to  approach  her — at  each  advance  the  Nun  presents 
a dagger  to  him — they' finally  cross  and  exeunt  r. 

SCENE  V. — A Cut  and  Back  Wood — a mound,  e. 

Enter  the  Bleeding  Nun  and  Raymond  through,  the  wood,  r.  u.  e.— 
Raymond,  still  supposing  her  to  he  Agnes,  follows  her  till  she  gets 
on  the  mound,  c. — as  he  approaches  to  embrace  her,  she  vanishes, 
and  a transparency  rises  on  the  mound  with  the  following  inscrip- 
tion : — 

“Protect  the  Child  of  the  Murdered  Agnes  !” 

Ray.  Ye  powers  of  mercy  ! — Yes,  I swear  to  obey  the  injunction  ! 
My  Agnes,  then,  is  the  hapless  orphan  ! — Alas  ! to  what  distress  may 
not  my  absence  at  this  moment  expose  her  1 Beatified  spirit ! hear 
me  renew  the  solemn  vow  to  protect  thy  lovely  child — the  injured  Ag- 
nes ; and  may  I be  happy  or  wretched  as  I keep  my  oath  ! 

[Music. — Exit,  l. 

SCENE  VI. — A Mountain  Pass — a Cavern,  r.  u.  e. 

Jaques  and  Claude  discovered  watching. 

Enter  Rorert,  l.  u.  e. 

Rob.  [Looking  off,  l.]  Hasten  and  conceal  yourselves.  Yonder  are 
two  passengers  descending  into  the  vale  ; — climb  the  trees,  and  when 
they  are  within  reach,  drop  and  secure  them.  . Quick  ! quick  1 

[They  ascend  the  trees,  r.  and  l.  u.  e. 

Enter  Theodore,  l.,  leading  Agnes. 

The.  Nay,  madam,  cheer  up ; why  so  dejected  1 We  shall  soon 
reach  the  castle  of  Don  Felix,  my  master’s  father.  Then  do  not,  lady, 
thus  despair. 

. Agnes.  Oh  ! I am  sick  at  heart ! The  absence  of  Don  Raymond 
fills -my  mind  with  a thousand  doubts,  and  apprehensions.  Alas  ! why 
did  he  conceal  his  name  and  rank  1 Had  he  avovred  them  to  my  un- 
cle. I need  not  noiv  have  been  a wanderer. 

The.  Tt  Avas  by  the  command  of  his  father,  lady,  that  he  concealed 
it : and  I shall  incur  his  displeasure  for  breaking  through  his  strict 


20 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


Rob.  Have  you  been  successful  ? 

Jaq.  1 have  not  discovered  the  least  trace  of  them. 

Claude.  Nor  1 ; — they  are  doubtless  arrived  ere  now  at  the  castle 
of  Lindenberg.  ’Tis  my  advice  that  we  instantly  proceed  thither,  ai  d 
endeavor  to  way-lay  the  cavalier  who  has  played  us  this  scurvy  trick. 

Rob.  It  shall  be  so.  We  will  each  of  us  take  a different  road  to  the 
cavern ; there  will  we  repose  for  the  night,  and  in  the  morning  early 
hasten  to  the  castle,  where  we  will  watch  for  the  murderer  of  my  father. 

Jaq.  We  have  sworn  his  destruction  ; nor  shall  Marguerette,  or  her 
child,  escape  our  vengeance. 

Rob.  Hence,  then  ; here  we  separate.  To  the  cavern  ! This  night 
our  revenge  shall  sleep.  [Exeunt  r.  and  l. 

SCENE  III. — Outside  of  the  gates  of  Lindenberg  Castle,  as  before — 
Midnight. 

Enter  Raymond  and  Theodore,  r. 

Ray.  Come,  Theodore,  let  us  have  no  cowardly  fears  now  -r — wait 
at  a little  distance,  and  when  Agnes  comes  forth,  we  will  join  you. 
Away  ! remain  alone,  and  be  silent. 

The.  I must  perforce ; yet  I would  give  one  of  my  eyes  for  a com- 
panion to  speak  to,  if  it  were  only  old  Cunegonde,  who  I dare  say,  is 
fast  asleep  in  her  warm,  comfortable  bed,  and  not  even  dreaming  how 
we  are  employed.  [Exit,  l. — The  castle  bell  strikes  one. 

Ray.  Hark ! 

Enter  the  Bleeding  Nun,  through  the  gates — she  crosses  and  exits, 
r. — Raymond  follows  her  in  ecstacy. 

Re-enter  Theodore,  l. 

The.  I cannot  abide  to  be  alone  in  the  dark  at  this  time  of  night ; 
my  apprehensions  are  worse  than  reality. — Oh,  dear!  where  can  my 
master  and  the  Lady  Agnes  be  1 Which  way  can  they  have  gone  I 
How  did  I miss  them  1 [Going,  r. 

Enter  Agnes,  from  the  castle , dressed  as  the  Bleeding  Nun. 

The.  [Falling  on  his  knees,  c.]  Holy  St.  Michael,  preserve  me! — 
Yonder  comes  the  real  ghost  — Oh  ! what  would  I give  to  be  safe  at 
home,  and  in  a whole  skin! 

Agnes.  [Crossing  to  l.]  Ha!  a man! — It  is  Alphonso’s  servant. 
Speak,  Theodore ; where  is  your  master  ? 

The.  [Groaning.]  Oh  ! oh! — From  goblins  and  spectres,  holy  Vir- 
gin preserve  me  ! 

Agnes.  [Approaching  him. J Theodore,  look  up  : it  is  me — Agnes. 
Whe.e  is  your  master  7 

The.  [Rising.]  Agnes  ! — Thanks  be  praised  ! It  is  the  Lady  Agnes, 
sure  enough,  and  pure  flesh  and  blood,  instead  of  a withered  skeleton  ! 

Agnes.  Where  is  Don  Alphonse? 

The.  Why,  has  not  your  ladyship  seen  him  1 — I left  him  but  a few 
minutes,  since  waiting  for  you. 

Agnes.  Accident  prevented  me  leaving  my  chamber  so  soon  as  I in- 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNES. 


23 


Ray.  Ha ! — Wait  you  here,  Marguerette  ; we  will  hasten  and  effect 
her  rescue,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

Mar.  No,  signor;  I will  accompany  you.  I know  every  nook  and 
turn  in  the  cave,  and  may,  perhaps,  render  you  some  service. 

The.  This  way,  then — follow  me  ! [ Exeunt , r.  u.  e. 

SCENE  VII. — The  interior  of  the  Robber's  Cave. 

Agnes  discovered  chained  to  a rock , r.  — Robert,  Jaques,  and 
Claude,  seated  at  a table , c. 

Claude.  Nay,  you  need  not  blame  me ; it  was  no  fault  of  mine. 

Jaq.  Of  what  consequence  is  the  fellow’s  escape  1 

Rob.  The  utmost.  My  revenge  is  never  to  be  gratified.  He  fought 
like  a devil ! Had  I been  no  more  fatigued  than  you  were,  I would 
have  followed  him  to  the  verge  of  the  forest,  ere  he  should  have  es- 
caped me. 

Jaq.  Come,  a truce  with  reproaches.  Here’s  one  cup  to  our  better 
success  in  future ! 

Claude.  With  all  my  heart;. arid,  for  the  present,  let  us  lay  by  our 
arms.  [They  rise,  place  their  pistols  on  the  table,  and  come  forward. 

Jaq.  How  shall  we  dispose  of  the  prize  we  have  already  secured  1 

Rob.  I have  thought  of  that.  We  want  a housekeeper  to  supply  the 
place  of  Marguerette : she  shall  be  the  wife  of  one  of  us — let  her  take 
her  choice ; and,  if  it  is  not  her  own  fault,  she  may  be  as  happy  as  an 
empress. 

Claude.  Excellent!  You  hear,  lady,  what  we  have  determined: 
which  of  us  do  you  choose  to  have  for  a husband  I 

Jaq.  Look  at  us : we  are  three  stout,  well-made  fellows ; — you 
might  make  a worse  choice,  my  dear,  even  if  you  had  a hundred  to 
pick  from. 

Rob.  You  see  we  use  no  compulsion.  Take  your  choice.  Speak: 
for  which  of  us  do  you  decide  1 

Agnes.  For  neither  ! — Heath  would  be  more  welcome  ! 

Rob.  This  scorn,  lady,  will  be  of  no  avail.  Recollect  that  you  are 
entirely  in  our  power:  if  you  refuse  our  love,  you  may  perhaps  feel 
our  vengeance. 

Agnes.  Be  it  so! — I would  welcome  the  blow  which  freed  me  from 
your  importunities. 

Jaq.  Entreat  her  no  more ; she  is  in  our  power,  and  must  yield. 
Here  are  dice:  we  will  throw  and  see  who  is  to  have  her:  and  let  the 
others  quietly  resign  her  to  the  winner. 

Rob.  It  shall  be  so.  Now  fortune  favor  the  brave  ! — [ They  throw 
the  dice.}  The  chance  is  mine;  [ Unfastening  Agnes’  chain.]  and 
thus  I take  possession  of  my  bride  ! 

Agnes.  If  you  possess  one  spark  of  humanity,  I implore  you  to  re- 
store me  to  my  friends; — believe  me,  you  will  be  rewarded  even  be- 
yond y.our  wishes ; and  1 will  pledge  my  word  that  no  measures  shall 
be  taken  to  deprive  you  of  liberty. 

Rob.  Rely  upon  it,  that  unless  you  can  a second  time  elude  our 
vigilance,  you  will  never  again  behold  other  friends  than  those  who 


24 


RAYMOND  AND  AGNKS. 


now  stand  before  you.  Recollect,  you  are  destined  t/  oe  my  wife. 
Aynes.  Thy  wife  ! — T will  perish  first ! 

Bob.  I may  find  a way  to  lower  your  tone,  my  h a ghty  lady,  I am 
absolute  here;  therefore,  dread  to  disobey  me. 

Agnes.  Monster!  I neither  fear  thy  power  nor  * iy  threats ! Think’st 
thou  that  Agnes  will  ever  join  herself  with  a vil’  fin  and  a murderer — 
a wretch,  whose  hands  are  dyed  with  the  bb  d of  innocents  1 No ! 
rather  than  consent,  let  me  be  the  next  victi  of  your  cruelty  ! 

Bob.  Be’t  so ! [ Aiming  a dagger  at  he'  Take,  then,  the  reward 
of  thy  insolence  ! 

Agnes.  [ Screaming .]  Oh  ! [<S7ie  f aids  the  blow , and  kneels. 

Music. — Enter  Raymond,  Theodore,  id  Marguerette,  rushing  in 
hastily , l.—  Raymond  attacks  Rop  at,  v’ho  falls  wounded  ; and  as 
he  rises,  and  aims  a blow  at  R.'  ^mond,  Marguerette  snatches  a 
pistol  from  his  belt,  and  shoots  1 <m — Agnes  rises — Theodore  darts 
furiously  on  Claude,  and  aoc  *omes  him — Jaques  is  shot  by  Agnes 
with  a pistol  dropped  Si/Cla’jDE. — Raymond  and  Agnes  meet — they 
embrace,  and  kneel,  c. — a loud  crash  is  heard — the  back  of  the  cav- 
ern falls  to  pieces,  and  discovers  the  Bleeding  Nun,  in  a blue  ethe- 
real flam,e , invoking  a blessing  on  them \ — she  slowly  ascends , stiTi 
blessing  them — they  form  a tableau,  and  the  curtain  descends. 


THE  END. 


FRENCH’S  STANDARD 

Site  3 etuis  KMtton. 


DRAMA 


No.  CXCIL 


THE 

GAMBLER’S  FATE 

OR, 

THIRTY  YEARS  OF  A GAMESTER’S  LIFE. 

%,  grama,  iit  Sfoo  gtis. 

BY  H.  M.  MILNER,  ESQ., 

Author  of  Mazeppa,  Massanieilo,  $c. 


TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED 

A Description  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exits— 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and 
the  whole  of  the  Stage  Business. 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  THE 

PRINCIPAL  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  THEATRES, 


Lofdon  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

Publisher, 

89,  STRAND. 


New  York  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH  & SON, 

Publishers, 

28,  WEST  23rd  STREET. 


1 CAST  OF  THE  CHARACTERS.— [The  Gambler’s  Fate.] 

Park , 1828.  Bowery , 1851.  London. 

Mr.  Germaine,  - - - - - - - Mr.  Chapman.  Mr.  Moore.  Mr.  Huntley. 


COSTUME.— [The  Gambler’s  Fate.] 


MR  GERMAINE. — Morning  gown  and  slippers — white  cravat. 

ALBERT. — First  dress:  Light  single-breasted  coat,  silver  frogs — short 
happed  embroidered  waistcoat — white  breeches — lace  ruffles — pow- 
der and  bag — latchets,  &c.  Second  dress:  Brown  body  coat,  steel 
buttons — black  breeches — white  waistcoat — hair  dressed  plain. 
Third  dress:  Very  ragged  dark  great  coat  and  pantaloons — old 
shoes — slouch  hat — gray  hair,  &c, 

MALCOUR. — First  dress:  Brown  single-breasted  coat,  with  frogs — 
white  breeches — embroidered  waistcoat — powder  and  bag — ruffles — 
latchets,  &c.  Second  dress : Blue  braided  frock — tights — Hessian 
boots — round  hat  Third  dress : Very  ragged  drab  great  coat- 
old  boots — hat— gray  hair. 

DUMONT. — First  dress:  Plain  sage-colored  suit — white  stockings — 
ruffles.  Second  dress : Plain  dark  brown  suit.  Third  dress : Q reat 
coat  and  top  boots. 

BERTRAND. — First  dress:  Green  single-breasted  coat,  steel  buttons 
black  y reeches — embroidered  waistcoat — bag  wig — powder  and 
ruffles.  Second  dress:  Blue  surtout  and  white  trowsers. 

MARTIN. — First  dress:  Plain  suit  of  livery — white  stockings — pow- 
der, &c.  Second  dress : Plain  drab  or  gray  suit— hair  dressed  plain, 

HENRY. — Green  uniform,  white  facings — silver  epaulets — gray  trow 
sers,  &c. 

EVERARD. — Plain  suit  of  black — powdered  bag  wig — ruffles,  &c. 

CAPT.  D’ESTERRE  and  SOLDIERS.— Blue  uniforms,  red  facings— 
long  white  gaiters — cocked  hats. 

BAALAMB. — Gray  coat — red  waistcoat — buff  breeches,  and  boots. 

CARL. — Red  jacket — drab  breeches — white  apron,  and  clogs. 

GENTLEMEN,  GAMBLERS,  &c.— As  Albert, 

PEASANTS.— Countrymen’s  jackets — smock  frocks,  &c.,  &c. 

JULIA. — First  dress:  White  satin  slip  and  stomacher,  trimmed  with 
white  guaze,  and  pearl  beads.  Second  dress:  Blue  slip,  with  white 
open  robe— net  quilling,  &c.  Third  dress:  Slate-colored  dress, 
very  mean  and  shabby. 

MAD.  BELCOUR. — Plain  brown  stuff — white  apron — handkerchief, 
and  cap. 

MRS.  BAALAMB. — Red  bodice — blue  petticoat — apron  with  pockets. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance , Left.  R.  First  Entrance , Right.  S.  E.  L. 
Second,  Entrance,  Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Right.  U.  E.  L. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance,  Right.  C.  Centre. 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance , 
Left.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D R. 
Door  Right  D.  L.  Door  Left.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door , Left.  U.  D.  R 
Upper  Door,  Right. 

***  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage  facing  the  Audience 


THE  GAMBLE  ITS  FATE 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I — Musto.  —A  Gaming  House  on  the  Boulevards,  Paris. 

Banker.  [Beh'.'J,  l Make  your  game,  gentlemen,  make  your  garao, 
dealing,}  um-  ,-ura-  -29 — Rouge. 

Mai/ jour  advances,  counting  notes,  Sfc. 

Male.  Urn-  1200  winner — good — I hadn’t  £5  three  hours  ago — 
bless  the  blind  old  lady,  say  I — ha — ha  ! ha!  What  excitement  in  the 
game  to  a n rvice.  I have  retired  soon — I’m  cool. 

[tS'i’&s  l.  h.  Dice  heard  in  the  room  r.  h. 

Banker.  Make  your  game  gentlemen — um — uni  Noir. 

Enter  Rodolphe  BERTRAND/Vom  Hazard  Room,  c. 

Bert.  Pool!  fool  that  I was  not  to  quit  when  I was  so  considerable 
a winner — now  1 am  without  a shilling — cruel — cruel  fortune ! 

Male,  [l.]  Ha!  ha!  ha!  poor  devil — he  has  lost — why  how  now  Ber- 
trand- -complaining  of  dame  fortune  ! 

Beet.  Complaining — aye — the  old  blind  beldame  has  settled  me 
for  ever — lost  in  three  weeks  £4000  all  that  a kind  father  had'  saved 
during  a long  life  of  honor  in  his  country’s  service — but  if  ever 
again — [ Throws  himself  in  chair,  r.  h. 

Male.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Always  the  cry  of  your  loving  gamester — but 
let  the  luck  tuin  and  then — ha!  ha!  ha! — Where's  your  Philosophy 
mv  dear  fellow — -you  should  study  the  chances — play  on  calculation. 
[Counting  his  notes.]  Ah!  here  comes  young  Albert  Germaine  the 
boldest  and  most  desperate  dog. 

Enter  Germatne,  c. 

Albert,  [l.]  Ah,  Malcour,  my  boy,  how  goes  the  enemy  i 

Male.  Midnight. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


a 


Albert.  I’m  late — my  honored  papa , detain’d  me — obliged  to  do 
an  hour’s  “ filial  piety”  and  a littl a domestic  comfort  the  night  before 
my  marriage.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I’m  a precious  hypocrite.  [Sighs. 

Male.  The  run  has  been  against  you  lately — you’re  out  ? 

Albert.  Aye  confoundedly  out — but  to-night — I depend  on  fortune’s 
smile  to  compensate  for  all  her  frowns — I’m  out  the  1200  my  father 
entrusted  to  me  to  buy  those  diamonds  he  is  to  give  my  intended 
wife  on  our  wedding  day — 

Male.  That’s  awkward — 

Albert.  Its  ruin — money  I must  have — I have  been  running  after 
our  old  friend  Alvare  the  usurer.  He’s  in  the  country. 

Male.  That’s  unlucky — the  old  Jew  has  often  been  a friend  in  need. 

Albert.  I was  so  short  of  cash,  that  I have  metamorphos’d  some 
trink  s into,  “ rosy  gold.” 

Ma'c.  Right  my  boy,  attack  fortune,  like  a lad  of  courage— force 
her  to  be  kind — [Albert  counting  his  cash.]  Who  knows  but  thosa 
goldfinches  ma\7  sing  a pretty  tune  before  sunrise. 

Albert.  Fortune — dear,  but  fickle  goddess — befriend  me  but  one 
hour — but  one  little  hour — and  I shall  be  the  happiest  of  men,  of  lovers 
and  of  husbands.  [Exit  to  the  table  c.,  off  r. 

Bert.  JSo,  another  victim — 

[r.  h.  corner — observes  Albert  at  the  table. 

Male.  [<SzVsl.  h.  writing  during  speech .]  Those  jewels  must  be  had 
for  Albert — or  the  old  gentleman’s  suspicions  would  prevent  the  mar- 
riage— that  must  not  be — no  he  must  marry — marriage  ha!  ha?  1 
too  love  this  Julia — but  marriage  ha!  ha!  ;\.s  a mistress  I should 
adore  her — but  as  a wife  psha — there’s  such  an  inconvenient  inter- 
ruption about  a wife — but  when  Albert’s  ruined  (as  soon  he  must  be 
here)  I’ll  make  the  haughty  fair  one  mine,  on  my  own  terms — I’ve 
written  to  a female  friend — [Seals  and  directs  it. J Waiter!  [ Ente r 
Waiter,  r.  1.  e.J  see  this  delivered — ’tis  for  Madame  Sivrac,  your 
neighbor. 

Waiter.  I know  her  sir — [Bows  and  exit  l.  h.  d. 

Bert.  Maicour — if  you  had  any  friendship  for  young  Germaine — 

Male.  Friendship,  in  a place  like  this? — ha!  ha — poh ! he’s  “a 
dashing  fellow"  he’ll  soon  be  rich  enough. 

Bert.  How  ? 

Male.  By  marriage  [rises  and  comes  forward  l.  c.]  with  a charm- 
ing girl — happy  dog — 

Bert.  Are  you  not  a friend  of  the  family  ? 

Male.  Yes — I’m  the  friend — t’was  I that  brought  out  this  young 
man — 1 have  launch’d  him  into  the  world — ha  ! ha  ! [Pointing. 

Bert.  Strange — for  they  say  that  his  father  is  a very  severe  man — 
with  manners  most  primitive  and  rigid. 

Male.  Why,  yes — lie’s  a-a  grumbling  old  gentleman  and  very  rich — 
but  thanks  to  my  address,  the  good  man , already  full  of  infirmity, 
believes  us— ha  ! ha! — a couple  of  saints,  and  as  Albert  expects  a 
splendid  fortune  at  the  old  man’s  death,  he  borrows  a little  before 
hand,  ha  ! ha  !—  he  has  already  disposed  of  the  cash  he  is  to  receive 
with  his  bride  to-morrow. 


6 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


Bert  Poor  girl — Mas  she  not  an  orphan  at  the  early  age  of  ten  ? 

Mala  Yes — sl.e  was  brought  up  under  the  eye  of  "Mr.  Germaine 
she  has  an  uncle  lately  returned  from  India,  from  whom  she  expects 
no  trifle — he  consents  to  the  marriage,  and  is  hourly  expected  [noise 
of  playing , c.J  but  aliens,  the  game  seems  all  alive — come — oh  ! I 
forgot,  you  are,  hg  ! ha  ! ha!  cleaned  out. 

[Exit  through  to  table,  c.  and  off,  r. 

Bert.  Cold  hearted  wretch  ! poor  young  Germaine  with  such  a tutor, 
lstf  Waiter  enters,  l.  h.,  bows  on  Dumont  l.  1.  e — and  exit,  r. 

Enter  Dumont  l.  h.  d.,  hat  in  hand. 

A stranger ! how  shame  dye’s  my  cheek  at  the  sight  of  every  new  face 
in  a plate  like  this — Ah  ! by  heav’n  I know  him — a rich  merchant  at 

Marse,Vlles — I met  him  at  my  uncles  there what  brings  him  to  this 

scenfc  of  vice  and  ruin.  I’ll  avoid  him  and  observe  Germaine — for  the 
poor  devoted  Julia’s  sake.  % [Exit  up  c. 

'During  the  above  soliloquy  two  Watters  enter  n.  h. — observe  Dumont 
— one  goes  off  to  Malcour.  the  other  smirks  up  to  Dumont. 

Dumont.  So — this  then  is  the  den  of  thieves,  called  a gaming- 
house— 1 am  a bold  man  to  enter  ’tis  the  first  time  in  my  life — 1 hope 
the  last — 

lstf  Waiter.  Your  hat,  and  stick,  sir! 

Dumont.  Thank  you  friend — I can  take  care  of  them  myself. 

ls£  Waiter.  It  is’nt  the  custom  of  the  house  sir — 

Dumont.  Aye,  you’ve  many  custom’s  here,  I sliant  subscribe  to — ■ 
[Row  at  the  table,  c. — exit  Waiter,  c. 

Banker.  Come — come,  make  your  game  gentlemen. 

Dumont.  What  a horrid  scene — ’tis  a libel  to  call  them  men — they 
are  fiends  in  human  form — and  are  these  bis  companions  1 can  it  be 
that  Albert  Germaine — the  son  of  my  best  friend — the  intended  hus- 
band of  my  neice — comes  here  each  night,  to  destroy  his  health,  his 
fortune  amfsiiDy  a name  illustrious  in  the  proud  annals  of  his  coun- 
try— I must  be  certain — I have  chosen  the  best  means — ’tis  ten  years 
since  I saw  this  young  man — how  shall  1 know  him  amongst  this  foul 
herd  of  gamblers.  [&7s,  r.  h. 

[Waiter  brings  on  Malcour,  c.  and  points  to  Dumont 

2nd  Waiter.  That’s  a strange  face  sir — 

Male.  A pigeon,  perhaps,  you  think. 

2nd  Waiter.  [Smirking.]  I hope  he’ll  prove  worth  the  plucking  sir. 

[Malcour  gives  him  money — motions  him  to  bring  refreshments. 

Male,  I’ll  try  the  old  boy— 

Dumont.  I must  conquer  my  feelings  and  speak  to  some  one. 

[Malcour  bows — smirks,  l.  c. 

Male.  Your  servant,  sir! 

Dumont.  Sir,  yours ! 

Male.  Very  warm  here,  no  . air — but  above  in  the  hazard  room 
you’ll  find—  [l.  down,  c. 

Enter  2nd  Waiter  with  refreshments,  r.  h. 

Will  you  lemonade.  [Drinks  and  offers  Dumont* 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


7 


Dumont,  [r.]  You  are  very  good — none. 

Malcr.  [l  ] A glass  of  wine  1 

Dumont.  Nothing,  sir.  {Aside.]  This  man  is  veiv  polite. 

Malcr.  You — you  seem  a stranger,  sir.  [Offers  snuff 

Dumont.  I am  so,  sir. 

Malcr.  Alt ! I see  ; you-— you  don’t  know  any  of  the  frequenters  1 

Dumont.  No — not  just  at  present. 

Malcr.  You — you  want  to  “ woo  the  fickle  goddess” — wish  to  try 
your  fortune — eh  1 

Dumont.  Not  exactly. 

Malcr.  [Aside.]  The  devil  you  don’t.  Ah!  I see — I see;  you’re 
right — prudence,  my  dear  sir — prudence  is — is — [aside] — damme  if  I 
don’t  forget  what  it  is.  The  game  is  tempting,  sir — yes — when  one  sees 
the  piles  of  gold — here — there — one  can’t  help  longing  and  risking — 
but  be  cautious,  sir,  and  it  my  services  or  advice 

Dumont.  [Dryly]  Indeed,  sir! 

Main.  Upon  my  honor,  you’ve  inspired  me  with  a sort  of  interest. 
What’s  your  game  I Roulette — rouge — et  noir — hazard — ecarte  1 my 
dear  sir,  you  may  command  me. 

Dumont.  Sir,  I have  no  wish  to  become  a pupil  in  infamy  and 
vice — and  I hold  you  and  your  services  in  equal  contempt  and  de- 
testation— 

Malcr.  This  is  a pretty  return  for  an  act  of  voluntay  friendship. 

Dumont.  Friendship,  sir  ! don’t  degrade  that  hallowed  name. 

[Noise,  c.  r. 

Enter  Albert,  half  mad , with  cards  in  his  hand. 

Albert.  Fiend’s  seize  all ! Thus  I destroy  these  execrable  instru- 
ments of  fortune — thus  ! [Tears  the  cards. 

Malcr.  [l.J  Why!  how  now,  Germaine  1 [Holding  him. 

Dumont.  Germaine  ! just  heaven — it  is — I recollect  his  features 
now.  [Goes  up , r.,  observing  him. 

Malcr.  What  has  happened  1 [They  come  forward. 

Albert.  I have  lost  all— my  brain  is  turning. 

Malcr.  Lose  your  money,  but  not  your  reason. 

Albert.'  I’ve  lost  all,  I tell  you.  The  money  I had  with  me — the 
400  you  procured  for  me — and  500  for  which  my  word  is  pledged. 
Oh  that  the  cards — the  fiend-like  instruments — had  been  in  the  abyss 
of  hell!  miserable,  miserable  Albert!  [Throws  himself  in  chair,  l.  h. 

Dumont.  Horrible  madness  ! that  a young  man  with  competence — • 
all  the  elegant  enjoyments  of  home,  friends,  relations — the  heart-thril- 
ling smiles  of  an  affianced  bride— should  leave  those  joys  for  a scene 
like  this ! 

Enter  Bertraxb,  c. 

Bert.  [e.  Aside.]  Still  here.  [Looking  at  Dumoxt. 

Dumont.  [Aside,  r.  c.]  I should  know  that  young  man’s  face. 

Malcr.  [l.  c.J  Come,  come — I thought  you  a man — a mar  that 
wouldn’t  run  mad  at  the  loss  of  a few  hundreds. 

Bert.  Germaine,  I am  a fellow  sufferer — this  terrible  lesson  is  a 


8 


THE  GA.VDLER’s  FATE. 


warning  from  heaven — believe  it  so,  and,  like  me,  swear  to  renounce 
forever. 

Albert.  [Rises,  takes  c.]  Renounce!  Renounce!  what,  not  try  to 
redeem  my  loss  1 no,  no;  1 still  must  worship  fortune.  I'll  not  desert 
her  though  she  has  deserted  me.  Alter  all  her  frowns,  perhaps  she 
means  to  smile.  I — I’ll  watch  her — follow  her;  she — she  yet  may 
save  me.  Yes,  yes,  in  one  hour — aye,  in  one  little  hour,  she  might 
redeem  all — all.  [Nervous  and  anxious  anticipation — to  and  fro. 

Mater.  True,  true — but  you  must  play  more  cooly — cooly,  my 
friend.  You  are  always  obstinate  in  pursuing  bad  luck;  when  she 
runs  against  you,  cut — always  cut.  Have  you  lost  all  the  money  I 
lent  you  I [Significantly. 

Albert.  [Petulent.]  Yes,  yes,  all.  [ Writes , l.  h.  table.}  There’s  my — 

Malcr.  [Putting  in  his  pocket-book.]  Cheer  up;  I am  still  your 
friend.  To-night,  why,  the  run’s  against  you  on  [showing  notes,  then 
putting  them  up  again.]  To-morrow  you’ll  be  in  cash,  and  perhaps  in 
luck  again. 

Dumont.  To-morrow ! 

Albert.  Ay,  to-morrow  my  marriage  with  Julia  will — but  those 
bridal  jewels.  Malcour,  longer  to  deceive  my  father  is  impossible. 

Malcr.  I am  still  your  friend,  Albert.  [Presses  his  hand.]  I shall 
be  able  to  procure  them  at  last — borrow  them  for  a time — you 
understand  1 

Albert.  When  1 [ Anxiously. 

Malcr.  This  night. 

Albert.  W here  1 

Malcr.  Here. 

Albert  This — this  indeed  is  friendship;  my  dear  Malcour,  you  are 
my  better  angel. 

Malcr.  An  accommodating  lady,  who  has  certain  traffic  with  her 
sex,  (she  is  very  useful  to  our  female  gamblers,  from  the  proud  duchess 
to  the  dashing  spouse  of  the  briefless  barrister,)  and  she’s  not  particu- 
lar as  to  the  vender’s  right  of  property — her  commercial  motto’s  “ No 
questions  asked  here  ;”  she  showed  me  this  afternoon  a set  of  splendid 
diamonds.  I’ve  credit  with  her,  which  credit  shall  be  yours. 

Albert.  Ten  thousand  thanks.  Not  a moment  must  be  lost,  Mal- 
cour. [Presses  his  hand.]  Oh,  what  is  life  without  a friend  1 

[Exit,  l.  n. 

Dumont.  Can  I believe  my  senses — is  this  the  youth  on  whom  & 
fond  lather  rests  his  every  hope  of  happiness  1 To-morrow,  or  rather 
to-day,  [looks  at  his  watch,]  he  was  to  have  married  my  niece — I have 
arrived  in  time  to  prevent  that  dreadful  misfortune,  however. 

[Going,  sees  Rodolph,  who  advances  slowly. 

Bert.  You  recognize  me,  sir,  and  yet  you  doubt — you  think  if  im- 
possible .that  the  son  of  an  honorable  man  like  Mr.  Bertrand  should 
be  found  in  a place  like  this. 

Dumont.  Rodolph  Bertrand,  is  it  not  1 

Bert.  1 would  have  avoided  you,  but  some  words  escaped  you  du- 
ring the  odious  scene  we  witnessed — and  above  all,  your  embarrass- 
ment tells  me  that  you  are  here  for  the  first  time. 


THE  GiMBLFR’S  FATE. 


Dumunt.  I am,  and  the  last , I trust. 

Bert.  Would  it  were  my  first  visit!  [si'^/is]  but  alas!  I have  lost 
all  my  little  fortune  in  this  scene  of  vice.  I was  leaving  it  forever, 
when  1 overheard  a scheme  laid  to  entrap  you,  if  you  are  not  a prac- 
tised gamester.  Fly  this  place. 

Dumont.  I a practised  gamester!  oh,  young  man,  I am  in  no  dan- 
ger ; but  your  good  intentions  have  won  my  esteem — and  if  your 
penitence  is  sincere,  I may  befriend  you  for  your  father’s  sake.  1 am 
no  gambler,  but  my  presence  here  may  perhaps  preserve  the  happi- 
ness of  a lovely  girl.  But  come,  let  us  leave  this  den  of  infamy. 

[About  to  go , are  met  by  Gens  d'armes,  l.  h. — the  two  officers  and  six 
men.  Nos.  1 and  2 advance , charge  bayonet,  stop  Dumont  and 
Bertrand — Nos.  8 and  4 go  into  back  room , and  close  doors — Nos. 
5 and  6 sent  to  hazard  room , r.  h.  d.,  by  Captain  D’Esterre,  who 
places  No.  1 sentinel  at  door  of  back  room , and  No.  2 at  entrance , 

L.  H. 

Capt.  [l.  c.]  Let  no  one  pass  unless  known  and  proved. 

Dumont,  [c.]  How’s  this  l you  will  not  dare  to  detain  me,  sir. 
Capt.  I dare  execute  my  orders,  sir.  Your  papers — if  correct  you 
may  depart. 

Dumont.  What,  in  a place  like  this — must  I dishonor  myself  by  de- 
claring my  name — my  residence'? 

Capt.  Dispatch,  sir — your  papers  < 

Dumont.  Why  this  severity'? 

Capt.  ’Tis  for  the  public  good — jewels  of  great  value  have  been 
stolen  from  a neighboring  house — we  suspect  that  they  have  been 
brought  here. 

Dumont.  Can  you  suppose  that  I 

Bert.  [c.J  Stop ! this  gentleman  is  ashamed  to  have  it  publicly 
known  that  he  was  in  a place  like  this — unfortunately,  I regard  it  not. 
[ Hands  his  passport .]  1 am  known  to  you,  Captain  D’Esterre,  and 
will  be  answerable  for  him. 

Dumont,  [r.]  You,  young  man ! well,  well,  you  may  do  it  without 
fear. 

Capt.  [c.J  You  must  speak  for  yourself,  sir.  Your  name. 

Dumont.  I 

Bert.  1 am  answerable,  I tell  you,  Captain. 

Capt.  Mr.  Bertrand,  I am  on  duty,  sir.  [To  Dumont.]  Your  name 
Dumont.  Dumont — a man  of  independent  property,  well  known  at 
Marseilles.  I arrived  at  Paris  this  evening — my  papers  are  at  my  ho- 
tel. Is  that  sufficient  1 

Capt.  Yes,  when  proved.  I must  conduct  you  to  the  prefecture. 

Dumont.  The  prefecture  ! Sir,  my  character  is 

Capt  Good,  perhaps — but  your  company.  [ Points . 

Dumont.  True,  true. 

[2 d Officer  and  four  Gens  d'armes  bring  out  gamblers  in  files  fi  rm 
lack  room — one  Gen  d'arme  and  four  from  the  hazard  room . ft.  a 


10 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


Capt.  My  orders  are  peremptory — you  must  follow. 

[ Goes  up,  examines  papers,  and  sends  them  off. 
Dumont  Must ! poor  Julia  Dumont — who  shall  watch  thy  fate  the 
while  1 

Bert.  Julia  Dumont!  did  I hear  right  1 then  you  are 

Dumont  Her  nearest  friend — her  more  than  parent ; 1 come  to  save 
her. 

Bert.  From  a ruined  gamester's  arms.  I see  it  all — confide  to  me 
your  wishes  ; write  your  orders — I’ll  fiy  to  execute  them.  Here,  here. 

[Dumont  sits  at  l.  h.  table  and  v'rites. 
Dumont.  There,  generous  young  man,  [giving  Bertrand  letter ,] 
delay  not  a moment;  the  happiness  of  a virtuous  and  lovely  girl  de- 
pends upon  your  speed. 

[Music. — Military  arrange,  march  off,  l.  h.  d.  Servants  clear  the 
front  of  stage,  shut  folding  doors,  and  close  the  windows  during 
dialogue. 

SCENE  IT. — A Summer  Saloon,  open  to  the  garden  at  the  back.  An 
arm  chair  near  l.  h.,  put  on  by  servant.  Madame  Belcour  dis- 
covered. 

Mad.  B.  Not  quite  seven  and  all  arranged  ; there,  there. 

Enter  Martin,  l.  h. — moves  chair  down. 

Well,  Martin,  how  is  Mr.  Germaine,  poor  old  gentleman  1 

Martin.  The  medicine  has  made  him  worse,  I think  ; he  wants  to 
speak  to  his  son — 'tis  the  third  time  I’ve  been  to  seek  him.  My  mas- 
ter’s very  impatient. 

Mad.  B.  Not  without  reason,  Martin;  he’s  not  the  only  person  that 
Albert’s  conduct  has  given  offense  to.  Poor  Miss  Julia  Dumont,  my 
dear  pupil — in  a few  hours  they  are  to  be  married. 

Martin.  Ah,  Madame  Belcour,  have  you  discovered  I 
Mad.  B.  Yes — that  your  young  master  has  been  11  out  all  night." 
Martin.  Mercy  on  us!  the  night  before  his  wedding — how  odd.  If 
master  knew  it!  if  Miss  Julia  knew  it!  the  night  before  his  wedding 
— what  would  she  think  ? 

Mad.  B.  She  has  a little  of  my  suspicion ; she  dislikes  that  Mr. 
Malcour — so  do  I,  too  ; he  seems  to  have  bewitched  Mr.  Albert.  Now 
I make  bold  to  pronounce  him  a determined  and  reckless  gambler. 

Martin.  Don't!  hush!  if  master  knew  it  it  would  be  the  death  of 
him. 

Mad.  B.  On  that  account  I’m  silent.  Peace!  here  comes  Julia 
say  nothing — go  where  Mr.  Germaine  sent  you. 

[Exit  Martin,  u.  e.  r.  h. 

Enter  Julia,  r.  h.,  dressed  for  wedding. 

Julia.  Ah,  my  dear  Madame  Belcour  ! 

Mad.  B.  Julia,  my  dear  girl,  this  is  your  wedding  day — if  there’s  a 
heart  in  the  world  that  prays  for  your  happiness  it  is  mine. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


11 


Julia.  I know  you  love  me ; I — I have  no  secrets  from  you. 

[ Weep — embrace. 

Mad.  B.  Julia,  my  beloved  child,  I feel  your  warm  tears. 

Julia.  You — you  weep  yourself. 

Mad.  B.  Me — I [Trying  to  conceal  it. 

Julia.  Dearest  friend  of  my  infancy,  hitherto  my  instructress  and 
my  guide — I feel  as  though  a cloud  obscured  the  joy  that  should  at- 
tend the  nuptial  hour — as  if  fate  ordained  that  misery  would  follow 
the  sacred  vow  I am  about  to  make.  Mr.  Dumont — my  only  relative 
— he — he  comes  not — he  abandons  me  ; and  my  good  old  guardian 
Mr.  Germaine,  I fear  his  days  are  numbered.  Sad  moment  for  a fete 
— and  for  the  principal  witness  to  the  solemn  act  we  are  to  have  Mr. 
Malcour;  I know  not  how  to  express  the  fear  with  which  that  man 
inspires  me — his  libertine  and  audacious  looks  disgust  me. 

Mad.  B.  You  will  be  surrounded  by  your  friends. 

Julia.  Albert,  too,  seems  strangely  altered — have  you  not  remarked 
his  air — all  inquietude  and  agitation  1 

Mad.  B.  Hark  ! Ah  ! I believe  the  bridesmaids  come  to  fetch  you. 

Julia.  Already  ! no,  no — ’tis  my  dear  afflicted  guardian. 

Music. — Enter  old  Mr.  Germaine,  u.  e.  l.  h.  d.,  leaning  on  two  ser- 
vants in  splendid  liveries — they  place  him  in  a great  arm  chair,  l.  c. 

Julia.  [Has  helped  him  and  knelt.]  My  more  than  father — friend 
of  my  orphaned  infancy. 

Old  Ger.  [Raises  her — kisses  forehead.]  Where  is  my  son?  I have 
asked  for  him  several  times  this  morning — not  here  yet ! [Vexed. 

Julia.  I will  seek  him,  sir.  Ah,  see ! he  comes.  Albert,  quick, 
quick  ! [Runs  up  and  beckons  him. 

Enter  Albert,  u.  e.  r.  h. 

ATbei~t.  Malcour  not  yet  arrived  ! should  he  not  obtain  those  cursed 
jewels.  [Aside  ] Sir,  I attend  your  orders.  Julia,  the  bridesmaids 
wail  your  presence  in  the  great  saloon. 

Old  Ger.  Let  me  enjoy  a moment  longer  the  sight  of  my  daughter. 
It  is  the  regret  of  my  heart  that  I am  not  able  to  conduct  you  to  the 
altar — but  how  is  this,  Julia  1 your  bridal  ornaments  are  not  complete. 
My  son,  have  you  forgotten  ? 

Albert.  No — sir — but  in  the  hurry — Ihe  bustle If  Malcour 

comes  not  I am  lost.  [Aside. ] Some  things  are  not  quite  arranged. 
[Looking  anxioasly  to  top. ] Ah  ! he’s  here,  and  I am  safe. 

Enter  Malcour,  r.  h.  u.  e. 

The  diamonds 

Mai  Are  here.  Charming  Julia,  and  you,  sir,  excuse  my  delay — I 
had  promised  my  friend  to  bring  these  objects  of  his  impatience. 

[Gives  casket  to  Albert. 

Albert  Thanks,  thanks.  Malcour — my  better  angel  still.  [Aside. 
Presents  them,  with  an  air  of  triumph.]  My  dearest  Julia  will  add 
lustre  to  the.  e glittering  baubles. 

Julia.  A most  brilliant  set — behold,  sir! 

[Showing  them  to  Old  Germain* 


12 


THE  GAMBLER’S  RATE. 


Albert.  Only  a trifling  proof  of  my  ardent  love. 

Mai.  [Aside.]  Trifling  ! true,  they  didn’t  cost  you  much. 

Old  Ger.  My  fears  were  unjust.  [Returns  casket.]  Albert  has  fully 
accomplished  my  wishes. 

Mai.  Has  he — ha ! ha ! wise  old  man.  [Aside.]  I have  promised 
this  evening  to  deposit  500  on  account  of  the  diamonds.  Aside  to 
Albert. 

Albert,  [r.]  The  money  shall  be  ready. 

[Takes  Julia’s  hand  to  lead  her  off  r. 

Old  Ger.  Albert,  a word  alone  before  you  go. 

Music. — Enter  Bridesmaids,  l.  h.  u.  e.,  business , shows  diamonds , 

l.  c.  and  c.,  Malcour  offers  his  hand,  she  rejects  it — all  off  but 

Albert,  and  Old  Germaine.  Julia,  and  females,  r.  h.  d.  Mal- 
cour and  Servants  at  the  top,  l.  h>  u.  e. 

Albert.  [Aside. ] ’Tis  the  last  lecture,  I must  submit,  to-morrow  I 
am  free,  now  I must  be  filial. 

Old  Ger.  Albert,  you  are  now  about  to  quit  the  paternal  authority, 
never  forget,  my  son,  that  I commit  to  your  care^i  name  bright  and 
unsullied — pure  as  the  snow  that  glitters  on  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc.  You  will  possess  an  independent  Tortune — use  it  my  son — use 
it,  but  never  abuse  it. 

Albert.  Sir,  the  example  of  my  father. 

Old  Ger . Words,  boy,  mere  words.  Wealth,  my  son,  wealth  too 
often  leads  to  peril — it  furnishes  the  means  to  gratify  the  vilest  pas- 
sions of  our  nature — and  even  in  your  boyhood,  Albert,  remember 
one  vice,  a love  of  gaming— twas  the  source  of  all  your  little  trou- 
bles— ’twas  a vice  that 

Albert.  A father’s  eye  observed  and  crushed  the  monster  in  its 
birth. 

Old  Ger.  [Firmly  scrutinizing .]  I did  my  duty,  sir,  since — ha^e 
you  done  yours  1 

Albert.  Can  you  doubt  me,  sir  1 have  I not  sworn  that  this  odious 
passion  was  forever  driven  from  my  thoughts. 

Old  Ger.  You — you — have  sworn  my  son— and  I should  be  satisfied 
— and  yet  if  you  have  deceived  me.  [Still  doubting. 

Albert.  Still  these  doubts — Oh,  my  dearest  father,  do  I deserve 
suspicion  1 

Old  Ger.  My  son,  heaven  alone  sees  into  the  hearts  of  men  and  it 
is  to  heaven  you  must  account  for  the  happiness  or  misery  of  Julia 
Dumont,  if  you  have  abused  my  Confidence— if  forgetful  of  your  oaths, 
you  still  cherish  that  detested  passion,  and  glory  in  the  gambler’s 
vice,  heaven  pardon  me  for  having  linked  poor  Julia’s  destiny  with 
thine — for  then  your  fate  is  certain — but,  my  son,  I shall  not  live  to 
see  the  dishonor  of  my  name.  No,  I shall  not  witness  your  misery  or 
your  crime.  The  tomb — the  tomb  will  hide  me  from  the  sad  disgrace. 

[Music 

Albert.  They  come  ! thank  heaven  for  this  relief.  [Aside. 

Old  Ger.  Albert,  I have  spoken — embrace  your  friend— youi 
father. 


THE  GAMELEr’Z  FATE. 


13 


Music. — Malcour  and  visitors  enter  from,  garden.  Madam  Bel. 
cour,  Julia  and  Bridesmaids  from  r.  h.  chamber.  Julia  has  the 
diamonds  on. 

Enter  Martin,  r.  u.  e. 

Mai.  Come,  Albert,  come — all  is  in  readiness — the  carriages  wait. 
Old  Ger.  Go  then,  my  children — my  heart  and  voice  will  follow. 

Music. — Julta  kneels  to  Old  Germaine,  who  blesses,  raises , kisses 
her  forehead.  Madam  Belcour  and  Bridesmaids  take  her  hand, 
all  follow,  r.  h.  u.  e.  through  c. 

Old  Ger.  My  heart  is  troubled — my  eyes  fill  with  tears,  my  fore- 
bodings must  be  false — he  does  not  game,  he  has  sworn  it.  Malcour, 
his  bosom  friend,  he  has  sworn  the  same.  Hark ! they  are  gone — 
gone  to  pronounce  the  irrevocable  vow.  Martin  1 

Martin.  Sir  1 [Down  R. 

Old  Ger.  Go  see  the  ceremony  commenced,  and  then  run  back  that 
I may  join  my  benedictions  with  the  last  prayer  of  the  minister. 

Martin.  I undrt’stand  sir,  here  goes,  I love  to  see  people  married— 
they  look  so  silly  till  it’s  all  over.  [Runs  off  r.  h.  u.  e. 

Music. — Enter  Bertrand,  from  garden,  l.  h.  u.  e. 

Old  Ger.  What  stranger  is  this  1 

Bert,  [l.]  I believe  I address  Mr.  Germaine. 

Old  Ger.  I am  Mr.  Germaine. 

Bert.  1 come  from  Mr.  Dumont,  your  friend. 

Old  Ger.  Dumont ! is  he  arrived.  Why  is  he  not  here  1 
Bert.  This  letter  will  explain. 

Old  Ger.  What,  mysterious.  [Reads.]  “My  Friend  arrived  last 
night — discovered  an  alarming  secret.”  What  does  he  mean  ? “ All 
must  be  changed  respecting  my  nieces  marriage.  I write  in  haste, 
yours,  Dumont.”  Great  heaven,  do  you  know  his  motive,  sir  'l  I 
dread  to  ask  you.  Already  my  son  is  at  the  altar — by  this  time  the 
marriage  is  indissoluble. 

Re-enter  Martin,  white  favors,  l.  c.  r.  h.  u.  e. 

Martin,  [r.]  It’s  done — it’s  done — they  are  married,  their  jobs 
done.  Ah,  sir,  if  you  had  but  seen  it,  such  a touching  ceremony. 

[Exit,  r.  u.  e. 

Enter  Dumont,  l.  h.  u.  e.,  down  l.  c. 

Bert.  Mr.  Dumont,  it  is  too  late,  the  vow  is  taken,  they  are  mar- 
ried. 

Dumont,  [l.  c.]  Alas!  my  poor  Julia. 

Old  Ger.  My  friend  ! Dumont ! this  letter. 

Dumont.  Forget  it,  I conjure  you. 

Old  Ger.  Never,  it  must  be  explained  immediately. 

Dumont.  Since  you  insist,  know  then,  that  last  night  in  an  infam- 
ous gaming  house,  I saw 


Music  a.t  distance. 


14 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


Bert.  They  are  returned,  spare  the  innocent  Julia,  and  guard  the 
honor  of  your  son  by  eternal  secrecy. 

Old  Ger.  Never — I will  pierce  this  mystery. 

Music. — Enter  all. 

Julia.  My  uncle!  friend!  father!  [Embrace. \ Now  indeed  I’m 
happy. 

Albert.  What  do  I see  1 

Mai.  The  stranger  that  last  night 

Albert.  And  Bertrand — we — we — are  betrayed. 

Julia.  [ Looking  at  Albert  and  then  at  Dumont.]  What  means 
this — you  don’t  speak — Albert,  my  uncle  stands  before  you. 

Albert.  Your  uncle!  I declare  I had  lost  all  recollection  of  Mr. 
Dumont.  I regret  that  you  arrived  too  late  for  the  ceremony. 

Old  Ger.  [Aloud.]  Perhaps  you  ought  to  thank  heaven. 

Mai.  Do  you  mark  your  father. 

Old  Ger.  Retire  a moment  my  daughter. 

Dumont.  What  would  you  do  'l 

Old  Ger.  I would  speak  with  my  son.  [ Commanding .]  Julia,  retire. 

Albert.  Stay.  I forbid  your  going,  you  have  no  master  now  but  me. 
Its  useless  to  surround  yourselves  with  mystery.  I know  the  outrage 
you’ve  prepared,  I know  from  whence  it  comes,  the  author  is  before 
me  and  shall  answer  for  this  infamous  treason  [threatening  Bertrand] 
with  his  life. 

Bert.  Me  1 

Old  Ger.  Rash  and  unguarded  youth. 

Dumont.  Insult  no  one  here.  I am  the  only  person. 

Albert.  You!  you  will  not  dare — remember  we  met  last  night — 
where  [ significantly ] you  had  better  conceal. 

Enter  Martin,  alarmed , r.  h.  u.  e. 

Martin.  Oh,  sir,  there’s  a magistrate  with  a party  of  the  police,  he 
says  he  must  speak  with  you  immediately. 

Old  Ger.  To  speak  with  me — shew  him  in. 

Albert.  A magistrate. 

Mai.  Should  it  be  the  diamonds,  my  mind  misgives  me. 

Dumont.  My  friend,  preserve  the  honor  of  your  house,  let  all 
strangers  retire. 

Music. — Visitors  exit,  l.  h.  u.  e.,  and  enter  D’Esterre,  and  Gens 
d'armes,  r.  h.  u.  e.,  and  goes  down , l.  c. 

Esterre.  [l.]  It  is  with  regret  that  I disturb  this  nuptial  celebration, 
tut  my  duty  demands  it.  Are  you  not  Mr.  Albert  Germaine  1 

Old  Ger.  My — my  son,  sir  ! . 

Esterre.  A robbery  has  been  committed  near  a certain  notorious 
gaming  house,  long  under  surveillance,  you,  Mr.  Albert  Germaine,  are 
one  of  the  frequenters  of  that  house. 

Old  Ger.  How,  can  it  be?  Albert! 

Esterre.  Last  night  a casket  of  jewels  was  conveyed  to  that  house 


TUB  G-AMB  ER’s  FATE.  15 

by  a suspected  female,  those  jewels  were  for  you  and  are  sworn  to  be 
in  your  possession. 

Julia.  Albert!!  [ Comes  forward. 

Albert.  Silence ! 

Old  Ger.  Can  it  be!  Albert!  behold  the  gamblers  exploits!  Be- 
hold my  name  disgraced — a name — a name  no  man  ever  lived  that 
dared  sully  the  brightness  of  that  name — remove  the  degraded — the 
perjured  wretch,  whom  I renounce  for  ever. 

Esterre.  You  deny  it  not. 

Albert.  Why  should  I deny  it  1 Am  I not  the  free  master  of  my 
actions  1 May  I not  buy  baubles  to  please  my  fancy  1 If  those  bau- 
bles come  from  an  impure  source,  am  I obliged  to  know  it  I 

Mai.  [r.J  Good!  Well  argued. 

Albert.  Ha  ! ha  ! well  sir,  what  more  have  you  to  urge. 

Esterre.  Your  appearance  before  the  bench  now  sitting.  I come  to 
bring  you  there. 

Albert.  Me  ! 

Esterre.  Why  this  alarm — none  but  the  guilty  need  fear  our  laws. 

Old  Ger.  What ! a son  of  mine  a suspected  criminal  at  the  bar  of 
justice  ! Break,  heart,  break,  break.  Tomb,  tomb,  hide  these  grey 
hairs — hide  a dishonored  parent’s  head.  [ Faints  in  chair. 

Julia.  In  the  name  of  heaven,  for  mercy,  spare  my  husband — be- 
hold his  father’s  anguish.  Already  we  tremble  for  the  old  man’s  life. 
Do  not — do  not  by  this  one  blow  send  him  to  his  grave. 

[Falls  on  her  knees. 

Esterre.  [Raises  her.]  Madam,  the  prayers  of  beauty  in  distress, 
an  aged  father’s  tears,  the  sanctity  of  the  nuptial  hour,  all  would 

move  me  had  not  duty [Sees  her  diamonds .]  Ah  ! what  do  I see 

• — can  it  be,  [looks  at  paper,]  the  very  diamonds  which 

Julia.  Horror ! Oh,  no,  no,  no,  he — he  could  not  be  so  base  ! 

Albert.  Julia  ! [Tries  to  make  her  go. 

Esterre.  Hold,  sir  ! Madam,  I suspect  the  diamonds  on  your  person 
are  those  that  have  been  stolen ! 

Julia.  Ah!  [Screams.]  Off — off — infamy — no  more  defile  me. 

[ Unclasps  them. 

Mai.  [Seizing  Albert’s  hand.]  Don’t  name  me. 

Julia.  There,  sir,  there ! [wildly,]  surrounded  by  horrors,  where, 
oh  where  shall  T look  for  succour  I 

Dumont.  Here,  my  child,  in  the  arms  of  your  truest  friend. 

Old  Ger.  Execrable  act ! day  of  malediction  ! Oh,  I feel — I feel — 
death’s  hand  is  on  me. 

Julia.  [Kneeling  to  Old  Germaine.]  Pardon. 

Old  Ger.  No  ! the  lagf  accents  of  a dying  man  speak  the  voice  of 
heaven.  Hear  them.  The  destiny  of  the  gamester  is  inscribed  on 
the  gates  of  bell.  Ungrateful  son!  remorseless  parricide!  you  will 
be  a brutal  husband  and  an  unnatural  father.  Play  will  open  to  you 
the  abyss  of  guilt,  into  which  you  will  madly  plunge.  Your  days 
will  be  recorded  but  by  your  crimes:  and  your  life  will  end  in  poverty 
and  despair. 

Albert.  Father ! 


16 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


Old  Ger.  Ungrateful  viper  ! alien  from  my  affection ! degenerate 
reprobate ! you  have  dishonored  my  name — you  have  degraded  my 
family- — you  have  belied  every  principle  of  your  education — you  have 
turned  from  the  path  of  fame  and  glory  to  the  career  of  crime  and 
baseness — you  have  ruined  yourself — you  have  broken  your  father’s 
heart — you  have  thrust  him  shamefully  into  the  grave,  on  the  verge 
of  which  he  was  hovering.  Shame,  grief,  despair,  contend  within  my 
bosom  ; they  rend  my  heart,  and  make  its  last  pulsation  throb  with 
anguish;  they  choke  my  utterance;  and  the  last  throb  of  nature 
vents  itself  in  imprecations.  Dissolute,  unfeeling  monster ! take  thy 
father’s  dying  curse  ! curse!  curse! 

[He  falls  dead,  c.  All  gather  around  and  Julia  with  a shriek  falls 
upon  the  body.  Scene  closes. 

SCENE  III. — Another  room  in  Old  Germaine’s. 

Enter  Madame  Belcour,  r.  h. 

Mad.B.  Poor  Julia!  I have  removed  her  from  the  death-bed  scene, 
to  her  own  chamber.  Alas ! I fear  the  worst — a letter  to  the  dying 
father,  received  a few  short  minutes  past  proclaims  this  reckless  son 
guilty  of  further  crime — I dread  to  think  on’t — but  to  the  former 
charge  is  added  forgery  ! Hark!  those  groans! 

Enter  Dumont,  in  great  agitation,  r.  h. 

Mad.  B.  Now,  sir — the  cause — does  our  good  venerable  friend  sur- 
vive. 

Dumont.  He  is  no  more!  the  threatening  letter,  and  the  proof  of 
the  forged  note  struck  him  so  deeply  to  the  heart,  that  he  but  lived  to 
utter—  Hush!  breath  it  not  to  Julia. 

Mad  B.  I guess  he  died  in  anger  with  his  son. 

Dumont.  Died  cursing  him  \ proclaimed  him  parricide ! Nay 
more,  these  were  his  words  “ Albert  Germaine,  thou  art  a son,  already 
parricide,  thou  wilt  be  a brutal  husband,  and  a most  unnatural 
father!  Gaming  will  open  the  abyss  of  misery  and  thy  life  will  end 
in  torment,  horror  and  despair!” 

Mad.  B.  [ Weeping.]  Oh  Julia!  should  this  awful  curse  be  known, 
thou  never  would  survive  it. 

Dumont.  Speak,  inform  me  where  is  my  poor  devoted  niece  I 
Mad  B.  She  expects  my  coming  in  her  ante-chamber. 

Dumont , l.  Lose  not  a moment,  meantime,  as  Albert’s  ignominious 
death  will  but  increase  her  sufferings,  say  for  her  sake  I’ll  struggle  to 
preserve  him — time  presses — if  saved  he  may  repent. 

Mad.  B.  Never,  the  gambler’s  destiny  is  fixed,  and  by  his  crimes, 
his  days  are  numbered,  but  Julia  shall  have  hope,  farewell. 

[Exit  Dumont,  l.  h.,  Mad.  Belcour,  r.  h. 
SCENE  IV. — Julia’s  ante  chamber.  Practicable  window.  Two  por- 
traits of  the  Germaine  family  on  each  side  windciv. 

Music.  — The  little  jockey  Richard,  opens  the  harp  case  and  comes  out 
— observes  room  and  listens — he  hears  noise,  runs  and  shuts  him- 
self in  the  case.  Madame  Belcour  enters  and  lights  two  candle* 
on  the  toilette  table.  She  c.mes  from  bed-ehamber,  R.  H. 


IS 


Til  3*:  G A MS  LEGS  F ATE. 

Mad.  B.  [ Speaking  as  she  enters .]  Fear  not,  my  Julia,  I’ll  mind 
that  all  is  sale  e’er  long,  I will  return,  and  as  I trust,  with  welcome 
tidings.  [Julia  is  seen  at  the  door  thanking  her , r.  h.  1 e. 

Julia.  Oh,  may  Dumont  preserve  him ! he  is  my  husband  still  ! 
good  night — say — take  the  key  of  the  private  stair  case,  should  my 
uncle  or  Bertrand  come.  I have  it  not — ’tis  in  my  chamber,  return 
and  we  will  find  dispatch.  Oh,  fate  ! fate ! when  will  these  tort&ires 
nd.  [Exit  into  bedchamber , r.  h. 

Music. — Madame  Belcour  with  Julia  goes  into  dressing  room  first 
door,  r.  h.,  when  off  the  harp  case  opens  softly,  and  the  little  jockey 
comes  out  with  caution,  looks  about  attentively , listens  at  the  doors, 
opens  the  window  softly — waves  a white  handkerchief  which  ap- 
pears to  be  answered — goes  to  the  harp  case,  ta,kes  out  a ladder  of 
ropes  [si'Z/cJ  after  tying  the  end  to  the  windows,  throws  it  out. 
Malcour  comes  up  it,  sword  in  hand,  pistol  in  pocket.  Little 
Jockey,  in  action,  requires  silence — shows  where  Julia  is — then 
runs  to  the  table,  takes  up  bell,  nods  to  Malcour  and  pulls  out  the 
clapper.  Smiling  archly  Malcour  commands  him,  gives  him 
money,  §c.  Exit  down  ladder  which  Malcour  pulls  up  and  re- 
mains alone. 

Mai.  At  length  the  game  is  in  my  hand — Albert  cannot  return — he 
is  safe  in  prison,  and  the  hand  of  Justice,  perhaps.  Courage  Malcour, 
courage.  [Listens. J Haughty  fair  one,  you  shall  not  long  defy  my  love. 
Ah  ! her  attendant  is  about  to  leave  her,  good  ! good  ! 

[Retreats  to  case. 

Re-enter  Julia  and  Madame  Belcour,  r.  h. 

Julia,  [r.]  There  is  the  key  of  the  private  stair  case,  receive  ray 
uncle,  Bertrand  there.  If  my  husband  returns,  I’ll  open  this  door, 
Mad.  B.  [l.J  Fear  not,  I’ll  see  all’s  safe,  heaven  bless  you. 

[Julia  retires,  r.  h.  1 e.,  Madame  Belcour  locks  r.  h.  second  door — 
leaves  the  key  in,  then  crosses  to  private  door,  l.  h.  1 e.,  opens  it. 
puts  key  outside,  sees  that  all  is  safe , takes  one  candle,  goes  ofi 
sighing,  locks  door  after  her. 

Music  changes. — Malcour  comes  out  with  caution,  glides  by  the  wall, 
puts  his  sword  on  a chair,  goes  to  r.  h.  d.  2 e.,  takes  out  the  key, 
puts  it  in  his  pocket.  The  noise  alarms  Julia,  he  retreats  a little. 
Julia.  [Coming  forward.]  What  noise  was  that,  surely  some  one — 
who — who’s  there  1 [Pause. J They  reply  not — who’s  there's 
Mai.  [l.J  Malcour. 

Julia.  Malcour! 

Mai.  Silence — no  alarm,  Julia,  but  hear  me  I 

Julia.  Leave  me.  I command  you,  or — [Runs  to  bell.]  Ah!  [lie 
smiles , she  runs  to  the  door,  r.  2 e.,  finds  the  key  gone. 

Mai.  You  see  I have  prevented [Shows  the  key. 

Julia.  Am  I then  lost  l 

Mai.  No,  I come  to  save  you.  Spite  of  your  cruelty  I’ll  guard  you 
in  your  hour  of  peril,  we  are  alone — undisturbed. 


18 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 

Julia.  Horror!  alone  at  midnight!  and  with  this  fiend,  — 

villian,  all  beneath  this  roof  know  the  hatred  which  I bear  you.  1 
have  only  to  summon  them  to  my  aid,  and  they  drive  you  hence,  like 
the  midnight  ruffian  that  you  are.  Wretch  ! instantly  open  that  door 
and  fly  ! 

Mai.  Never ! fly ! what,  after  all  the  trouble  and  the  danger  that 
I’ve  ran  to  see  you  thus  alone  and  in  my  power  1 
Julia.  Heavens  have  you  no  fear  that 

Mai.  None  ! your  husband  can  never  enter  here  again — your  ser- 
vants are  soundly  locked  in  sleep,  or  if  any  dare  to  approach,  be- 
hold ! [Shows  pistol,  Julia  starts.]  Nay,  Julia,  do  not  tremble,  should 
love  give  cause  for  fear  1 Come,  spite  of  yoiir  disdain.  I’ll  snatch 
you  from  the  misery  that  now  surrounds  you — your  husband  is  con- 
victed, lost,  dishonored,  then  break  the  chain  that  binds  you  to  his 

fate — and  find  in  me  a faithful  friend — a fond  protector- 

[A  knock  at  jk.  h.  d.,  2 e. 

What’s  that  T [Ngarfc  up. 

Albert.  [Behind.]  Open,  Julia,  open. 

Mai.  Confusion  ! ’tis  Albert ! ’tis  Germaine ! 

Julia.  My  husband  ! Ah  1 should  he  see  this  fiend 

Albert.  Open,  quick,  I say  ! [Impatient. 

Julia.  Fly,  villian,  fly  ! and  save  thy  wretched  life. 

Mai.  Remember — dare  to  say  ’tis  me — I’ll  first  destroy  your  fame 
and  then  your  life.  [Puts  out  light. 

Albert.  Open  this  istant  or  I’ll  force  the  door. 

Julia.  Oh  ! my  spirits  fail  me  ! I’m  weak,  very  weak. 

[Staggers  towards  door , falls  senseless.  Germaine  forces  the  dooi , 
enters,  gropes  across , throws  off  his  cloak. 

Albert.  No  one  here!  all’s  silent!  haply  Julia  sleeps  and  knows 
not  I’ve  escaped  by  generous  Dumont’s  aid,  he  has  preserved  me  ! 
ha!  heard  I not  voices  1 No,  flight,  instant  flight  alone  can  save  me. 
Julia  shall  accompany  me;  she  must  be  my  consolation.  I am 
certain  that  she  loves — fondly  loves  me. 

[Going  round  strikes  the  sword  which  is  hanging  over  a chair  which 
he  has  found  and  placed  his  cloak  on,  it  falls. 

A sword!  how’s  this!  whence  came  it's  [Feels  the  hilt.]  It  is  not 
mine.  Ah  ! this  door  was  fastened  on  the  inside.  Those  voices  when 
1 knocked.  Gracious  heaven,  am  I betrayed,  betrayed  by  her,  the 
traitress.  Now  by  the  fury  which  animates  my  soul,  their  blood — 

their  blood  shall [Stumbles  against  Julia,  raises  her.]  What’s 

this  ! Julia!  senseless,  dying,  what  can  have  happened  I Julia — my 
beloved  Julia.  [With  affection. 

lie  raises  her  she  slowly  recovers,  stares  wildly  round  till  her  eye 
meets  his. 

Julia.  Ah  ! iry  husband  ! mercy,  mercy!  [Clasps  his  knee. 
Albert.  Mercy,  saidst  thou,  that  word  condemns  her.  Thou  art 
guillv. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


lfc 

Julia.  No,  no,  but  I tremble,  fly,  [Albert  looks  round  anxiously J 
seek  him  not — he — he  is  no  longer  here. 

Albert.  No  longer  here!  wretch,  speak,  where  is  your  lover f 
Julia.  I have  no  lover. 

Albert.  False  one,  accursed,  behold  ! [The  sword. J I’ve  found,  who 
— who  was  here  ! 

Julia.  I dare  not  tell,  you  would  shed  his  blood. 

Albert.  Right,  I would,  oh,  shame!  to  profit  by  my  troubles  to 
consummate  thy  most  disgusting  treason.  Now  by  an  injured  hus- 
band’s soul,  1 swear  he  dies  before  your  eyes,  speak,  where  is  he 
secreted  1 

Julia.  I know  not. 

Albert.  He  is  here  and  parts  not  hence  with  life.  Villian  come 
fin  th  ! 

Music. — Examines  chamber , behind  harp  case,  and  goes  to  door,  l.  h. 
finds  it  locked. 

Albert.  The  key  1 
Julia.  I have  it  not. 

Albert.  The  key  1 [Furious. J The  key  1 

Forces  door  and  exit,  l.  h.  Music. — Malcour  comes  out  of  the  case, 
cocks  his  pistol.  After  a pause,  enter  Madame  Belcour,  with  a 
light,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Mad.  B.  Oh,  ma’am,  Mr.  Bertrand  is  come,  he  must  see  your  hus- 
band. 

Julia.  Bertrand,  then  heaven  is  just,  my  uncle  sends  me  succour. 
Enter  Bertrand,  r.  h.  2 e. — Exit  Malcour,  l.  h. 

Bert.  Where’s  your  husband— he  has  been  traced,  the  soldiers  ap 
proach  the  house. 

Julia.  Quit  me  not.  Oh,  a dreadful  error  drives  my  husband  mad, 
he  seeks  for  blood. 

Re-enter  Malcour  and  Albert  from  chamber,  l.  h.  Malcour  points 
with  his  pistol  to  Bertrand.  Albert  snatches  pistol. 

Mai.  There  stands  the  seducer  of  your  wife. 

Julia.  Ah  ! [Screams. 

Albert.  Villain,  an  injured  husband’s  hand. 

Julia.  Hold,  hold,  there  is  the  guilty  wretch.  [Pointing  to  Mal- 
cour.] Aye,  on  my  soul ! and  for  the  proof,  e’er  Bertrand  entered, 
found  you  not  this  sword  1 

Enter  Dumont,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Dumont.  Fly,  wretched  Albert,  a carriage  with  the  swiftest  horses, 
all — all  are  ready,  lose  not  a moment — fly — fly. 

Albert.  Yes,  I must  cling  to  life,  but  Malcour,  1 11  be  revenged — 
and  Julia — no — no.  I’ll  not  believe  thee  false,  come,  partner  of  my 
flight,  I’ll  die  but  1 11  protect  thee — share  my  late. 


20 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


Mus.c.  - -He  seizes  the  senseless  Julia,  throws  her  across  his  shoulder 
rushes  off , l.  h.  d.,  which  Martin  tries  to  fasten,  as  Madamf.  Bel- 
cour  does  r.  h.  d.  Soldiers  force  r.  h.  d.,  and  run  to  l.  h.  d., 
which  Martin  and  Madame  Belcour  throw  themselves  before 
Soldiers  seize  them  and  throw  them  to  the  r.  h.,  Madame  Belcour 
runs,  looks  out  of  r.  h.,  window  with  Martin,  both  bawl  above  tut 
music. 

Mad.  B.  Safe  ! Safe ! 

Martin.  I see  them  a gallopping  ! I see  them  a gallopping. 

[ Quick  Drop. 

END  OP  ACT  1. 

A lapse  of  fifteen  years  Is  supposed  to  have  taken  place  between  the  First  and  Second  Acts 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Outside  of  a German  Inn  on  the  Munich  Road. — Sign 
Golden  Lion. 

Two  Travelers  discovered  sitting  at  a table — one  smoking  and  drink- 
ing, the  other  reading  a newspaper.  Enter  Mrs.  Baalamb,  with 

Carl  and  Babet,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Mrs.  B.  Come,  quick,  Babet ; stir  your  stumps,  girl — lay  the  tables 
in  proper  order ; and  Carl,  run  to  the  cellar — fill  the  cans  with  the 
best  tap — the  farthest  barrel — not  the  one  we  use  for  vinegar — we’ll 
give  that  a holiday  to-day.  Babet,  the  grilled  fowl  for  the  traveler  in 
No.  4.  [Goes  in.  Baalamb  cracks  his  whip  behind,  l.  ii. 

Baal.  [Without.]  There,  put  Grizzle  in  the  stable. 

Mrs.  B.  There,  there’s  my  little  husband — I must  go  give  him  wel- 
come, meantime,  bustle,  Babet,  bustle.  [Exit,  l.  h. 

1s2  Trav.  Well,  what  news,  brother  traveler  1 

2d  Trav.  Why,  not  much — only  “ On  Friday  last,  an  alarming  tire 
broke  out  in  the  scene-room  of  the  Theatre  Frangaise,  which  with 
g'eat  difficulty,  was  got  under,  but  not  until  two  lives  were  lost,  and 
much  valuable  scenery  destroyed.” 

Istf  Trav.  Why,  zounds!  that  fire  happened  fifteen  years  ago. 

2d  Trav.  Fifteen  years  ago!  [Turns  to  the  date.]  So  it  did — the 
paper’s  fifteen  years  old  ! Well,  that’s  droll — but  ’twas  the  only  one  I 
could  find  in  this  out-of-the-way  inn  ; and  as  I always  forget  what  1 
read,  any  news  is  new  to  me.  Shall  I go  on  1 [ 1 st  Traveler  assents. J 
“ Escape  from  prison  ! — Albert  Germaine,  convicted  of  felony  arid  for- 
gery, and  who  escaped  by  aid  of  a confederate,  some  time  ago,  lias 
not  yet  been  heard  of.” 

1 st  Trav.  That’s  not  true — I heard  of  him  at  Spa,  where,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  loss  of  his  own  property,  he  contrived  to  lose  every  shilling 


THE  GAMBLER  S FATE. 


21 


of  his  wife’s.  Poor  woman  ! she  had  then  two  children — the  oldest 
must  he  now  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and  like  his  patents,  penniless,  un- 
less he  made  money  at  sea,  where  lie  was  sent  at  seven  jeavs  old — 
further  I know  not ; no,  not  even  if  this  ruined  gambler  live  ! 

Enter  Baalamb  and  Mbs.  Baalamb,  l.  h. 

Mrs  D.  Welcome  again,  my  little  Baalamb.  [Baalamb  takes  papers 
from  his  pocket.]  Eh  ! what  are  those  papers'? 

Baal.  [l.J  1 met  the  Weisback  postman  on  the  road.  Here  are 
two  letters — there.  [ Gives  one. 

Mrs.  B.  For  me?  why,  I declare  ! it’s  from  my  cousin  Windy,  the 
bellows-maker  to  his  majesty — I love  to  correspond  with  people  con- 
nected with  the  court. 

Baal.  The  other  is  for  one  I don’t  know — a French  captain,  travel- 
ing, who  intends  to  stop  at  the  “ Golden  Lion.” 

Mrs.  B.  Let’s  see. 

Baal.  Curiosity,  Mrs.  B. 

Mrs.  B.  Um— um — at  Mr.  Baalamb’s — that’s  you. 

Baal  Yes,  I’m  the  only  Baalamb  about  these  parts. 

Mis.  B.  “ To  be  left  at  the  ‘ Golden  Lion,’  on  the  Munich  Road.” 

Baal.  Many  customers  in  my  absence  ? 

Mrs.  B.  One — a traveler,  who  goes  this  morning. 

Baal.  I’ve  news  for  your  curiosty,  wife.  You  know  that  ill-looking 
fellow  who  arrived  here  one  fine  morning  abuut  two  years  ago — he 
said  he  came  from  all  manner  of  places — he’d  a wife  and  a little  girl, 
and  looked  so  plaguey  poor. 

Mrs.  B.  What,  the  strangei  of  the  Red  Mountain — Albert,  as  they 
call  him  1 

Baal.  Well,  lie’s  to  be  driven  out  of  the  hundred. 

Mrs.  B.  What  for? 

Baal.  What  for!  why,  because  he’s  poor — he  has  never  paid  any 
rent  at  all,  and  here’s  a whole  year’s  tax  due.  He’s  to  be  drummed 
out  to-morrow,  as  a stranger  and  a swindling  vagabond. 

Mrs.  B.  Without  a home  ! what’s  to  become  of  his  poor  wife  and 
little  girl  ? 

Baal.  What  do  I care  ? away  with  them  all— it  will  be  a good  thing 
for  the  “Golden  Lion”  that  was — for  since  this  vagabond  lias  lived  in 
the  mountain,  people  are  afraid  to  pass  that  way — and  after  sunset, 
instead  of  staying  here  and  getting  drunk,  as  honest  Germans  ought, 
they  get  home  as  fast  as  they  can.  When  he  comes  here  sometimes 
— to  take  his  half-pint  of  small  beer,  perhaps — all  the  customers  take 
hold  of  their  jugs,  and  sneak  away  from  the  table  where  he  sits.  He’s 
a horrid-looking  fellow — seems  like  a man  accursed,  or  that  some 
malediction  was  over  him. 

Mrs  B.  That  traveler  found  last  month  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice 
— isn’t  this  Albert  rather  suspected  ? 

Baal.  Why,  I must  confess,  Mrs.  B.,  that — I give  a shrewd  guess — 
Wmph  ! — that  he  wasn’t  far  off  when  that  man  was  murdered  ! 

Mrs.  B.  Mercy  on  us ! and  1 was  last  week  at  his  cottage. 

Haul.  What,  vou  ’ you  couldn’t  be  so  fool-hardy. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


Mrs.  B.  The  man  wasn’t  there — 1 saw  his  wife  and  her  little  gi$ 
Oh  mercy,  what  misery  ! it  touched  my  heart,  and  I gave— I couldn’t 
help  it — I gave  them — — 
iio,od.  Gave  ! what  pray  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Twopence. 

Baal.  Two  pence!  Oh,  Mrs.  B.,  Mrs.  B. ! you  must  he  mad  to  bo 
going  about  making  ducks  and  drakes  of  a man’s  property  ! 

Mrs.  B,  They  were  without  bread. 

Enter  party  of  six  peasant  laborers,  l.  h.  2 e. — they  sit  most  on  the 
r.  h. — two  at  1.  h.  table. 

1st  Peas.  Some  wine  here,  Baalamb — some  drink. 

Mrs.  B.  Coming.  Carl ! Babet ! 

Baal.  Here,  they’re  all  come  from  church — and  so  thirsty,  poot 
souls  ! Ah  ! that  Parson  Alljaw  is  our  real  friend — always  preaches 
his  congregation  dry.  Go,  Mrs.  B.,  look  to  the  kitchen. 

1st  Peas.  Will  you  bring  us  some  drink  1 

Baal.  Drink  ! you  shall  swim  in  it.  [Exit  into  house. 

Some  smoke — some  play  cards.  Music. — Enter  Albert — ( alteration 
of  fifteen  years — a wandering  outcast  and  a murderer) — advances, 
place  vacant  at  l.  h.  table,  where  two  peasants  are  conversing —they 
stare  at  him,  express  uneasiness,  take  mmg  and  glass,  and  siin/c 
away  to  r.  h.  table,  which  is  very  forward.  Albert  absorbed  in 
thought. 

Albert.  What  is  memory  1 a blessing  or  a bane?  What  tells  it  1 
[Shudders  ] Oh,  ma  belle  France ! land  of  my  birth — my  beloved 
country  ! fifteen  years  a wretched  outcast  and  an  exile  from  thee ! 

Paris!  scene  of  my  former Memory,  avaunt ! to  some  a blessing 

— but  to  me — a curse  ! in  agony  on  the  table. 

Re-enter  Baalamb,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Baal.  What,  Snooks!  have  you  changed  your  place?  [They point.] 
Eh,  oh ! I see  how  it  is — that  tierce-looking  devil  of  the  mountain. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Baalamb,  r.  ii.  2 e. 

Wife,  there,  [points,]  just  as  I told  you,  that’s  the  chap  to  clear  a 
table. 

Mrs.  B.  Mercy  on  us ! how  miserably  lean  and  pale  he  looks ! 

Baal.  Aye,  he  looks  half-starved. 

Mrs.  B.  Half!  I wonder  which  half  of  him  is  full.  Come,  my  good 
little  Baalamb,  give  him  some  help. 

Baal.  Help ! perhaps  he’ll  take  a fancy  to  help  himself — so  I’ll  be- 
gin by  telling  him  11  His  carriage  stops  the  wayP  I’ll  just  civilly  beg 
him  to  put  the  ten-toed  machine  in  motion. 

Mrs.  B.  Well,  well,  you  needn’t  be  too  hard  with  the  poor  devil. 
Baal.  Leave  that  to  me.  [Strutting  to  him.]  Hollo,  there!  vou — • 
you  Mr.  What’s-your-name,  from  the  lied  Mountain!  [Knocks  his 
knuckles  on  table — rouses  Albert,  fixes  a look — Baalamb  retreats . 
—hows.  ' 


THE  GAMBLER’^  FATE. 


23 


Albert,  [l.  of  table.]  What’s  your  will  1 

Baal.  Eh  ! why,  that  is — ray  will  is — that  is,  I wish,  as  near  as 
possible,  to  obtain  ' he  knowledge  of  what  the  devil  you  want  here. 

Albert.  Nothing  but  to  rest  my  weary  limbs  upon  this  bench. 

[Sighs. 

Baal.  Why,  as  to  the  bench , as  a man , I don’t  refuse  the  bench,  but 
as  a publican,  l must  say  that  the  table  was  occupied. 

Albert.  I disturbed  no  one — I took  a vacant  place — I had  a right  tf 
take  it. 

Baal.  A right!  come,  I like  that — a right ! [Mrs.  B.  pulls  his  coat.] 
Let  me  alone,  wife — I’ll  prove  myself  a man  of  courage — do  you  think 
I’m  afraid  now  we  are  tentoonef  no,  no — I’ll  speak  to  him  if  he  were 
twelve  feet  high,  instead  of  six.  Poll ! poll ! wife — a cock-sparrow 
will  speak  to  a goose  when  his  interest  is  concerned.  Right,  indeed  ! 
What  right  have  you,  who  call  for  nothing  to  drink,  to  displace  honest 
men  who  drink  like  the  devil — eh  1 hum  ! 

Albert.  [Rises,  looks  at  him,  and  walks  aside.]  Oh  Albert ! is  this 
the  scene  thy  boyish  fancy  painted — is  this  the  scene  thy  early  man- 
hood promised  1 

Baal.  [ Following  consequentially.]  Oh,  oh  ! I see  you  take  a hint 
if  you  take  nothing  else. 

Albert.  You — you  hav’nt  much  feeling. 

Baal.  Feeling  ! poll ! can’t  pay  rent  and  taxes  with  it. 

Albert.  True — I’ve  walked  far  and  have  no  money — if  you’ll  give 
me  a glass  of  water  I shall  be  able  to  continue  my  journey.  [ Sits. 

Baalam  and  (rje  look  at  each  other 

Mrs.  B.  Husband  ! 

Baal.  Well,  water’s  cheap.  I havn’t  th'  '/mart  to  refuse  him — a 
man  must  be  charitable  sometimes. 

Mrs.  B.  Water  ! poh  ! give  him  a little  L jr 

Baal.  What  l 

Mrs.  B.  Small  beer  and  a cut  of  bread. 

Baal.  Would  you  ruin  your  husband  1 

Mrs.  B.  Consider  he’s  a man. 

Baal.  Yes,  and  a strapper,  well  there’s  some  stale  bread  and  the 
fellow  has  a good  set  of  grinders. 

Mrs.  B.  Put  a bit  of  something  on  the  bread,  by  way  of  relish — 
there,  so. 

Baal . [As  Albert  is  going.]  Hollo,  you  sir.  [Albert  turns 
fiercely.]  Don’t  make  a row.  I’m  going  to  give  you  something  to  eat, 
wait  a moment. 

[Baalam  goes  into  house,  r.  h.  2 e.  Wife  attends  guests. 

Albert.  I cannot  return  to  my  miserable  hovel  without  bread  for 
my  wife  and  child.  I cannot  see  them  pine  for  food.  [Wipes  his 
eyes.]  To-morrow  we  shall  be  driven  from  our  wretched  home.  [Cast3 
his  eye  round. J If  I could  meet  some  one  alone,  this  arm — I have  no 
other  chance — we  —we  cannot  starve. 

lie-enter  Baalam,  r.  h.  2 e.  Mrs.  B.  takes  refreshments  from  hi-w 

Mrs.  B.  There — there’s  a mug  of  beer. 


24 


THE  GAMBLER  L FATE. 


Baal.  Small ! 

Mrs.  B.  And  a bit  of  bacon  to  relish  the  bread. 

Baal.  I took  the  bacon  out  of  the  mouse  trap. 

Mrs.  B.  There  eat  and  drink.  Providence  will  always  protect  you, 
if  your  conduct  merits  it. 

At  the  word  “ Providence”  Albert,  about  to  drink  with  avidity, 

stops. 

Albeit.  Providence!  [Sighs  deeply,  at  last  drinks,  about  to  cai 
voraciously , stops  suddenly,  breaks  off  a small  piece  for  himself— 
puts  the  remainder  in  his  pocket .]  Por  my  wife  and  child.  [ With 
much  f eeling . 

[Eats  with  eagerness  as  Lindorf,  the  traveler,  enters  from  the  house , 
r.  h.  2 e.  He  comes  near  him  and  regards  him  with  compassion. 

Mrs.  B.  Ah,  there’s  the  traveler  about  to  depart  for  Munich.  Ser- 
vant sir,  hope  you  slept  well,  sir  1 

Lindorf.  Perfectly,  my  good  dame— tell  me  who  is  that  poor  crea- 
ture 1 

Baal.  What,  that  man  there  'l  Oh,  he's  a stranger  that  lives  in  the 
lied  Mountain,  they  say  he  comes  from  France. 

Lindorf.  Misery  seems  written  on  his  visage — spare  diet  that.  I 
am  an  odd  fellow,  landlord,  before  I commence  a journey,  I always 
find  out  some  real  object  of  charity.  I am  silly  enough  to  think  that 
it  insures  happiness  for  the  day,  put  a bottle  of  wine  on  yonder  table 
and  1 dare  say  that  the  poor  fellow  won’t  think  it  a great  trouble  to 
share  it  with  me. 

Baal.  Mercy  on  us,  sir,  would  you  drink  with  that  poor  devil  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Be  quiet  you  fool,  what  is  it  to  you  who  he  drinks  with,  so 
that  you  sell  your  wine.  Carl  a bottle  of  the  best  wine,  with  the 
green  seal  mind,  quick  ! 

Lindorf.  I must  be  at  Munich  early — let  me  have  your  bill. 

[ Cross  c. 

Mrs.  B.  In  a minute — I’ve  only  this  bottle  to  add. 

Goes  to  house , brings  slate  and  pencil,  sits  u.  e.  r.  h.  bench.  Carl 
brings  wine  to  Lindorf,  who  points  to  Albert’s  table.  He  puts  it 
there  with  glasses,  as  Albert  is  about  to  drink  his  small  beer, 
Lindorf  takes  it  from  him  and  throws  it  away,  and  pours  out 
wine. 

Lindorf.  Taste  that  wine , my  fine  fellow,  you’ll  find  it  agree  with 
your  stomach  better  than  small  beer. 

[Lindorf  takes  the  glass  to  drink.  Albert  does  the  same.  Peasants 
express  surprise. 

Idndorf.  May  heaven  assist  those  who  deserve  its  bounty.  [Albert 
with  glass  at  his  lips,  conscience  stricken  sinks  his  glass. J Come 
drink,  my  fi;iend,  drink. 

Albert.  [Recovering  drinks .]  Ah!  this  wine  has  reanima^*3 

■ ) 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


25 


Lindorf.  Well,  my  poor  friend,  I am  glad  it  has  done  you  good. 
Come  [fills  again, \ here’s  better  fortune  to  you. 

Albert.  Better  fortune.  [Drinks.]  To-morrow  I am  houseless,  the 
forest  or  the  cold  rock,  the  pillow  for  my  wife  and  child.  [Aside. 

Baal.  Wife,  hark  ye,  I’m  afraid  of  that  fellow,  if  he  should  harm 
the  good  natured  stranger. 

Mrs.  B.  6 and  5 are  13.  You  put  me  out  you  fool,  9,  11^,  carry 
o ie.  [Reckoning. 

Lindorf.  Tell  me,  my  friend,  do  you  know  this  country  well  1 

Albert.  Every  foot. 

Lindorf.  They  tell  me  there  is  a short  cut  to  Munich  much  nearer, 
than  the  high  road. 

Albert.  By  the  red  mountain,  ’tis  nearer  by  a third. 

Lindorf.  The  deuce  ! that’s  a great  deal— can  I go  on  horseback  I 

Albert.  Easily,  with  a guide  who  knew  the  road.  [A  sudden  thought 
strikes  him.]  You  are  not  of  this  country  I 

Lindorf.  From  Switzerland,  traveling  to  the  North. 

[Albert  ruminates  aside. 

Mrs.  B.  There’s  your  account  sir,  supper,  bed,  breakfast  for  your 
horse  and  yourself,  and  this  bottle. 

Lindorf.  Very  moderate. 

[ Takes  out  a large  purse  of  gold— throws  out  some  on  the  table.  Al- 
bert looks  at  the  gold,  then  at  Lindorf. 

Albert.  Gold ! my  almost  forgotten  friend.  Ah  ! with  that  sum — 

Lindorf.  Tell  them  to  saddle  my  horse  and  strap  on  my  portmanteau. 

Mrs.  B.  All’s  ready,  sir.” 

Albert.  What  road  will  he  take?  I’ll  be  with  him.  Yes,  with  that 

gold  once  more  I might [Joyful  anticipation.]  Yes,  he  comes  to 

free  me  from  these  loathsome  rags — yes [Sudden  horror.]  No, 

no,  no — I —I  thirsted,  and  he  gave  me  of  his  cup , no — no — never- 
let  me  fly  him.  [ Going. 

Lindorf.  Stop,  my  friend,  a word.  [Albert  stops.]  As  this  is  a 
holiday  I may  find  it  difficult  to  procure  a guide,  humph  ! this  poor 

devil  might  earn  a few [Goes  to  Albert.]  I wish  to  arrive  eariy 

at  Munich.  I think  of  taking  the  shortest  road,  will  you  be  my  guide  1 

Albert.  I! 

Lindorf.  Ay,  you.  I’ll  reward  you  for  your  trouble. 

Albert.  Why — why  am  I tempted  1 down  fiend — down.  [Struggle 
aside.]  No,  no. 

Lindorf.  No ! Why  no.,?  You  know  the  road.  I shall  be  generous 
and  you  look  as  if  you  needed. 

Albert.  I do,  indeed— well,  I attend  you. 

Lindorf.  That’s  right.  Come,  finish  the  bottle. 

Albert.  What  means  1 it  is  impossible.  I,  I cannot  resist  my  fate. 

[Aside. 

Baal.  I tell  you  I will  speak,  (if  I could  get  any  thing  by  holding 
my  tongue  indeed  !)  but  wife,  I won’t  have  such  a thing  on  my  con 
science,  consider  I’ve  a publican's  conscience.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but— 

Mrs.  B.  Be  quiet,  Baalamb.  You  are  fool — would  you  prevent,  the 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


26 

poor  man’s  earning  an  honest  penny  7 — what  is  there  to  fear  in  tie 
middle  of  the  day  7 Consider  to-morrow,  himself,  his  starving  wife, 
and  his  poor  little  girl  are  to  be  driven  from  their  home  ; come,  come, 
he’s  a husband  and  a father — the  little  money  he’ll  get,  will  help  him 
to  leave  the  country,  and  we  shall  get  rid  of  them  all. 

Baal.  Eh  ! ah  ! yes,  some  reason  about  that. 

[During  the  above  Lindorf  has  put  on  his  cloak,  and  is  ready  to  go. 
Enter  Babet,  l.  h.  1 e. 

Carl.  The  horse  is  at  the  gate,  sir. 

Lhndorf.  Farewell,  landlord,  good-bye  hostess,  let’s  be  off.  Come 
my  good  fellow,  let’s  be  off. 

Albert  lost  in  thought,  Lindorf,  slaps  him  on  the  shoulder,  l.  h 
u.  e.  Music. 

Baal.  Come,  wife,  bustle,  bustle,  don’t  forget  to  score  double,  as  it 
is  a holiday.  Quick,  Carl,  Babet  get  the  bows  and  arrows  for  my 
dear  friends  to  shoot  for  the  prize.  [Distribute  bows  and  arrows .] 
Bring  down  your  bird  at  the  first  shot,  then  return  and  drink  and 
dance  till  midnight. 

Music. — Exit  Villagers,  male  and  female,  l.  h.  2.  e.  Mrs.  Baalamb 
into  the  house.  Baalamb  and  Carl  into  cellar,  r.  h.  2 e. 

SCENE  II. — An  Apartment  in  Baalamb's  House. 

Enter  Henry  Germaine,  r.  h.  ( Undressed  uniform.) 

Henry.  “ The  Golden  Lion,”  correct  according  to  my  arrangement. 
I am  here  to  receive  a letter  with  information  on  which  my  future 
happiness  depends.  Within  there. 

Re-enter  Carl  from  cellar,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Carl.  Your  pleasure,  sir  7 
Henry.  The  master  of  the  house. 

Carl.  I’ll  send  him,  sir.  [Exit,  r.  h.  2.  e. 

Henry.  I am  now  near  my  journey’s  end,  and  my  long  lost  parents 
will  be  found.  My  poor  mother,  so  kind,  so  good,  and  my  father. 
Alas  ! he  has  been  guilty,  but  he  has  expiated  his  crime  by  15  years 
of  exile  from  his  native  land — 15  years  of  keenest  suffering — of 
misery  and  want.  I should  have  flown  sooner  to  their  help,  but  my 
uncle’s  death  alone  revealed  the  secret  of  their  existence;  I have 
traced  them  here  and  will  not  rest  till  I have  once  more  restored  them 
to  every  joy  and  comfort  wealth  can  purchase. 

Re-enter  Baalamb,  bowing,  from  cellar  r.  h.  2 e. 

You  are  the  master  of  this  inn. 

Baal.  Yes,  sir,  and  if  I am  not  deceived  you  [takes  out  letter ] are  a 
stranger  and  a military  man,  humph  7 
Henry.  I am  from  France. 

Baal.  From  Fr ince ! there,  how  odd!  I saw  it  in  a moment.  I >u 
—you  expect  something  at  the  Golden  Lion — humph  7 
Henry.  A letter,  which  I now  request  of  you. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


27 


Baal.  How  odd  ! I knew  it — saw  it  in  his  face — l-e-t-t-e-r.  \Henry 
impatient  ] One  moment,  letters  are  letters , especially  when  they  are 
not  post  paid.  I am  particular — your  name  7 

Henry.  Henry  Germaine. 

Baal.  Bless  me  how  odd — so  it  is.  [Reads.]  “ Captain  Henry  Ger- 
maine.” Captain  receive. 

Henry.  Quick,  sir,  quick ! [ Tears  it  open  and  reads. 

Baal.  A captain  ! a young  one,  he  must  have  had  some  money  to 
push  him  on — he’s  pleased,  some  love  afiair  perhaps. 

Henry.  Are  they  so  near ! my  parents,  my  dearest  mother  ! My 
friend,  assist  me  with  some  information,  and  I’ll  reward  you  hand- 
somely. 

Baal.  Speak  sir,  speak,  dont’t  talk  of  reward.  I’m  not  mercenary. 
[Aside.]  That’s  a lie,  but  he’ll  soon  find  it  out. 

Henry.  You  know  all  the  inhabitants  of  this  neighborhood  'l 

Baal.  Every  soul — charming  neighbors — not  one  of  them  but  has 
been  blind  drunk  at  the  Golden  Lion. 

Henry.  Have  you  noticed  a foreigner,  a man  between  40  and  50, 
poor  and  seeking  obscurity  'l 

Baal.  No,  no  neighbor  of  mine,  poor  and,  I wouldn’t  own  him. 

Henry.  They  write  that  he  has  been  living  here  these  two  years. 

Baal.  Two  years ! 

Henry.  And  exercises  the  calling  of  a wood-cutter. 

Baal.  Eh ! oh  no,  it  can’t  be  him — that’s  not  possible ! his  name 
if  you  please  1 

Henry.  He  passes  by  the  name  of  Albert. 

Baal.  Albert ! Oh  yes,  certainly,  a strong,  robust  fellow — a — a — 
not  at  all  like  one  of  us.  Oh,  yes,  I know  the  fellow,  but  who  the 
devil  could  suppose  a blackguard  like  that,  a friend  of  yours. 

Henry.  Say  nothing  offensive  of  him,  sirrah!  [ Checks  him,  he 
bows.]  He  was  married,  do  you  know  his  wife  1 

Baal.  His  wife ! Oh,  quite  a different  sort  of  creature,  a good 
creature,  but  almost  starving — in  want  of 

Henry.  My  poor  mother!  you  shall  want  no  more.  [Aside,  and 
wiping  his  eyes.]  Where  do  they  live  1 

Baal.  A league  from  the  village,  on  the  Red  Mountain,  in  a miser- 
able tumble-down  cottage  just  by  the  great  precipice. 

* Henry.  What!  is  their  state  so  wretched 'l 

Baal.  Misery  itself.  If  y<  iu  had  come  five  minutes  sooner,  you’d 
have  seen  him,  for  he  was  here. 

Henry.  Here ! 

Baal.  Sitting  just  there.  Out  of  charity,  I gave  him  a slice  of 
bread,  just  to  keep  the  life  in  him.  He’s  gone  as  guide  to  a stranger 
across  the  mountain — and  though  he’s  your  friend,  I wish  he  may  get 
safe  out  of  his  company,  [aside,]  that’s  all. 

Hem  y.  [Sinks  in  a chair.]  My  father  ! with  all  his  faults,  he  is  my 
father ! 

Baal.  Eh  ! oh ! eh  ! what’s  the  matter  ? you — you  want  something. 

Henry.  Yes — yes,  that’s  it,  I’ve  walked  a long  time  in  the  air. 

Baal.  Why,  Mrs.  Baalamb,  where  the  devil  are  you,  my  angel  I 
Babet  I 


28 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Baalamb  and  Babet,  r.  h.  2 e. 

Quick ! some  wine  there — some  of  the  best — something  to  eat,  this 
instant,  for  the  young  officer.  [Exit  Babet,  r.  h. 

Henry.  [Starts  up.]  My  friend,  I must  begone  this  instant.  My 
luggage  will  arrive  this  evening  from  Weisback ; prepare  your  best 
apartment  for  my  family — [thunder  heard  at  a distance] — that  for 
your  trouble.  [Gives  money.]  Now  point  out  the  road  to  my — to  Al- 
bert’s cottage. 

Mrs.  B.  Albert’s  cottage ! for  heaven’s  sake,  what  would  you  do 
there,  sir  1 

Henry.  Quick,  my  friend  ! each  moment  is  torture  to  my  soul. 
Baal.  Will  you  go  without  your  wine  I 

Mrs.  B.  See  how  the  lightning  flashes — there’s  a dreadful  storm 
brewing. 

Henry.  I heed  it  not ; I am  no  holiday  or  silken  fool,  to  shrink  be- 
fore the  mountain  blast — therefore,  point  out  the  road. 

Baal.  See  how  all  the  holiday  folks  are  running  for  shelter.  [Thun- 
der.] Hark  to  the  thunder ! ugh  ! see  how  it  rains.  By  the  honor  of 
a publican,  this  will  be  a soaker. 

Henry.  No  more  delay,  sir,  but  point  out  the  road  to  Albert’s 
cottage. 

Baal.  Well,  if  you  will,  why  you  must.  Go  through  the  village, 
leave  the  wood  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left.  [ad  lib. 

Music. — Henry  returns,  puts  on  his  cloak,  which  he  had  thrown  on 
his  seat,  and  runs  off — others  go  into  the  house.  Storm  increases. 

SCENE  LAST. — Albert's  miserable  cottage.  Two  windows , without 
sashes,  through  which  are  seen  sterile  mountains — a disjointed 
door , l.  f.,  on  one  broken  hinge,  flapping  in  the  wind — a table , 
made  out  of  a bit  of  board,  on  which  are  a large  and  small  lace 
cushion— four  broken  chairs.  All  bespeaks  misery  and  extreme 
poverty.  Wind  whistling  loud — lightning,  3fc. 

Julia  discovered,  ( fifteen  years  older,  dressed  miserably,  fyc.,')  she 
j places  the  table  and  works,  and  speaks  between  the  thunder-claps. 

Julia.  How  the  wind  sweeps  through  this  miserable  hovel.  Albert 
not  returned  ! should  he  not  obtain  employment,  should  he  come  back 
without  bread  for  my  child.  [Goes  to  the  door  where  the  child  is.]  She 
sleeps,  poor  child!  heaven  prolong  thy  slumbers,  and  spare  me  the 
grief  of  hearing  those  dreadful  sounds,  “ Mother,  some  food  or  I must 
perish.”  [She  weeps — storm  increases — she  speaks  in  the  intervals.] 
But  tears — tears  will  not  preserve  my  famishing  child  ; no,  no,  I must 
be  quiet,  and  finish  this  lace— it  must  fetch  something,  if  but  half  a 
loaf  of  bread.  [Works.  Thunder.]  If  heaven  ordained  that  my  life 
was  to  pass  in  misery  such  as  this,  oh,  why  was  I twice  a mother  i 
[Thunder  or  wind.]  My  Henry — my  son — he — he  perhaps  is  happy; 
eight  years  are  past  since  he  was  sent  to  sea— I shouldn’t  know  him 
now-  [ Wipes  her  eyes. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


29 


[Storm  increases — she  shivers  in  the  blast — the  old  door  is  blown  down 

— Julia  starts  up — Rose  (a  child,  8 or  9)  screams , and  runs  from 

the  door,  l.  h.  2 e.,  into  the  arms  of  her  mother. 

Rose.  Mother ! 

Julia.  My  child ! Nay,  calmly,  calmly,  my  love — there’s  nothing 
to  fear — the  wind  has  blown  the  old  door  down,  that’s  all.  [ Thunder . 

Rose.  Ah  ! but  I’m  so  frightened.  [Hides  her  head  in  Julia’s  dress 
shaking  with  cold  and  fear.  She  is  miserably  and  thinly  clad. 

Julia.  Alas  ! if  the  storm  continues,  and  this  frail  tenement 

[Looks  round  alarmed. 

Rose.  Where’s  my  father  1 

Julia.  Not  yet  returned,  my  love. 

Rose.  Don’t  cry,  mamma,  don’t  cry — I’m  not  so  much  afraid  now; 
I’ll  help  you  to  work  ; [faintly,]  I’m  not  very  hungry  yet,  mamma. 

Julia.  My  poor  child  ! worthy  a better  fate.  [Kisses  her. 

Rose.  We  must  work — mus’n’t  we  work  every  day  now  I 

Julia.  We  must  indeed.  [Rose  sits  on  a stool,  working , r.  h of 
Julia  ] That’s  my  brave  girl ; courage,  courage. 

Rose.  Yes,  mamma,  courage — but  I can’t  work  now 

[Shivering  and  languid 

Julia.  Why,  my  dear  l 

Rose.  I’m  so  cold.  [Shivering. 

Julia.  Misery,  misery  ! [Quits  work,  and  snatches  up  Rose.]  Hero, 
my  child  ; I’ll  warm  you  in  my  bosom ; there — there — Rose—  Rose. 
[Alternately  pressing  and  kissing  her.  A noise  heard.  ] Hark ! some 
ons  comes — then  help  is  near — we — we  shall  not  perish. 

[Puts  her  down — she  runs  to  back. 

Rose.  It’s  my  father. 

Enter  Albert,  d.  f.,  quick  and  agitated — a basket  and  napkin  over  it. 

Julia.  Albert ! thank  heaven  you  are  returned. 

Rose.  Oh,  father  ! we  have  been  so  afraid. 

Albert.  Afraid ! [starts]  afraid  of  what  l 

Julia.  The  storm  ; but  you  have  met  no  accident  ? 

Albert.  Hey  ! what  say  you  l [ wandering ] oh  no,  no  accident — no 

— acci [ Gives  hat  and  stick  to  Rose,  who  puts  them  in  corner.] 

See  you  not  ? behold  ! ha ! ha  ! ha  ! [ Uncovers  basket,  whuJk  she  takes 
— he  throws  himself  in  chair,  l.  h. 

Julia.  Ah  ! good  heavens  ! who  has  thus  kindly  succored  our  dis- 
tress? was  it  from  labor?  [shakes  his  head]  thy  prayers,  perhaps? 
[He  looks  wildly.]  Come,  Rose  ; come  quick— go  embrace  your  father. 

[Rose  runs  to  him — he  starts,  and  morosely  puts  her  away. 

Albert.  Thank  no  one.  [Julia  has  laid  napkin,  and  Rose  and  her- 
self sit  to  eat.]  Come,  quick,  I’m  fatigned — a thirst  devours  me— 
my  blood  boils  in  my  veins — haste  ! haste  ! [Goes  to  table — sits. 

Julia.  All’s  ready.  Oh,  Albert,  how  pale  and  changed — you  must 
have  suffered. 

Albert.  Suffered!  it  matters  not;  come,  want  nothing  to-day — let 
us  be  happy.  Some  wine.  Jutia,  some  wine.  [She  gives  il  Tie  has 


so 


THE  GAMBLER’S  RATE. 


put  the  glass  to  htd  lips , then  suddenly  drops  it , and  starts  awuy  from 
the  table  to  l.  h.]  When  I was  almost  perishing,  he  profered  kindness, 
and  I drank  of  his  cup , and  yet  I horrible!  [/S'ttt&s  in  chair , r,.  h. 

Julia.  [Alarmed,  rises  and  goes  to  him. J Albert ! 

Albert  There — there — eat — I — I want  nothing.  [She  returns. 

Rose.  It’s  very  good  indeed,  papa.  [Pause. ] Isn’t  it,  mamma'?  and 
I am  so  hungry.  [Eats  with  avidity. 

Albert.  Eat,  Rose,  eat;  [hiding  his  tears J eat,  girl,  eat. 

Rose.  So  I will,  papa,  as  fast  as  I can.  [Pause. 

Albert.  I’m  thirsty- — choking — Rose,  some  water,  girl,  water.  [Rose 
rubs  the  glasses,  pours  out  water  from  pitcher , takes  the  cup  to  Albert 
— he  looks  at  her — kisses  her  ] I couldn’t  see  her  starve. 

[Drinks  and  returns  the  cup. 

Rose.  [Screams.]  Look,  look  ! papa  is  hurt — there’s  blood  upon  his 
hand. 

Albert.  Blood!  [Conceals  it. 

Julia.  Albert,  you  are  wounded. 

Albert.  Poh,  nothing ! ascending  the  rock,  I struck  a corner — it’s 
nothing.  I’m  cold — make  a fire. 

Julia.  A fire  ! with  what  1 

Albert.  True,  true,  we  have  no  wood!  [Forced  smile.]  Well,  we 
should  rejoice;  our  fortunes  are  changed — we  quit  this  miserable 
cabin. 

Julia.  What  say  you  1 

Albert.  We  go  hence  at  daybreak.  See — the  bailiffs  command. 

[Shows  paper. 

Julia.  Good  heaven ! driven  hence  ! then  have  we  no  asylum. 

[ Weeps. 

Albert.  No  more  tears,  my  Julia,  have  I not  said  our  fortunes ’ 
changed,  to-morrow  we  depart  for  Vienna,  Hamburg,  or  Berlin. 

Julia.  Farther  still  from  France,  farther  from  my  son. 

Albert.  Psha ! he  knows  us  not,  your  uncle  doubtless  taught  your 
son  to  despise,  nay  curse  his  father. 

Julia.  Miserable  wretches  that  we  are.  Oh  where  are  the  means  to 
travel  I 

Albert.  [Shews  her  a purse.]  Behold! 

Julia.  Gold ! gold ! Albert,  how  did  you  obtain  it  7 

She  fixes  her  eye.  Guilty  he  sinks  beneath  her  gaze. 

Albert.  I — I — found  it. 

Julia.  Found,  found  it ! [ Sceptical. 

Albert.  Half  this  sum  will  take  us  to  an  opulent  town,  and  with 

the  other  half [Joyous  anticipation.]  Fortune  cannot  always  be 

against  me.  I’ll  try  her  once  again,  and  if  she’ll  smile  on  me,  I’ll  for- 
give her  all  her  former  frowns.  When  again  in  opulence 

Julia.  Albert,  miserable  man — a gambler  still ! 

Albert.  [Alarmed.]  Peace,  some  one  approaches,  cover  the  food 
and  remember,  speak  not  of  my  gold. 

Julia  covers  food  with  napkin,  a poor  miserable  wretch,  covered  with 

rags,  with  staff  and  wallet , enters  d.  f.  the  door.  ’ Tis  Malcoub. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


31 


Mai . My  good  sir,  my  good  dame,  have  pity  on  a poor  miserable 
creature,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  your  charity. 

[Holds  out  his  hand  and  advances  slowly  to  the  cabin. 

Julia.  An  unfortunate! 

Rose.  Ah,  father,  he  is  so  very  poor. 

Albert.  [Petulant. J Let  no  one  enter. 

Julia.  Remember  we  have  just  escaped  the  horrors  of  starvation. 

Rose.  Yes,  I was  very  hungry  just  now,  papa. 

Albert.  Drive  him  hence. 

Julia.  Speak  not  so  harshly,  Albert,  his  misery,  perhaps,  has  been 
less  merited  than  thine. 

Rose.  Let  me  give  him  some  food,  I know  it’s  very  hard  to  be 
hungry 

Albert.  I forbid  it. 

Mai.  You  are  very  hard,  this  good  dame  is  more  compassionate 

than  you,  and  heaven  will  reward [Advances  to  the  center.] 

What  do  I see  1 can  it  be,  Germaine! 

Albert  and  Julia.  Malcour  ! 

Albert.  [Seizes  the  axe , l.  h.  2 e.]  After  15  years  of  torture  has 
hell  sent  me  my  revenge  ! [Music — chord. 

Albert  about  to  split  Malcour’ s head , he  holds  up  his  staff  to  guard. 

Julia  runs  between. 

Julia.  Hold ! [Loud  then  drops  her  voice.]  No  more  blood — no 
more  blood — behold  this,  miserable  wretch  1 Behold  the  fruits  of 
murder  / 

Albert.  Murder  ! [Drops  the  axe — Rose  picks  it  up  and  hides  it. 

Mai.  [Pause.]  What  would  you  have  gained  by  my  death  1 [Pause.] 
Albert  I have  injured  you,  but  behold  my  care  worn — my  attenuated 
form — this  miserable  garb,  say,  are  you  not  revenged  1 [Pause — 
advances  a step.]  Germaine  ! I offer  you  the  hand  of  an  old,  repentant 
friend,  forget  the  past,  and  together  let  us  strive  to  find  a way  to  cast 
these  rags  and  force  fortune  to  be  kind. 

During  the  above  speech  Albert  sits  distant , l.  h.,  gloomy — his  wife 

near  him,  anxious  to  prevent  a reconcilation — he  takes  the  child  on 

his  knee,  plays  with  her  curls  to  avoid  the  speech  of  Malcour. 

Albert.  [Starts  up.]  Never!  never!  No  more  of  Malcour’s  friend- 
ihip.  ’Twas  you  that  plunged  me  into  this  abyss  of  misery. 

Mai.  True,  an  innocent  victim  to  your  jealous  fury,  [sighs,]  but  1 
have  shared  your  punishment,  accused  like  you,  condemned  like  you 
— like  you  l fled.  Fifteen  years  I’ve  pined  in  want  and  misery,  curs- 
ing the  world,  and  crawling  in  despair,  a wandering  beggar  on  my 
way  to  Munich,  the  storm  fatigue,  hunger  and  the  approach  of  night, 
made  me  enter  here.  Alas ! I had  long  wished  to  meet  an  old 
acquaintance — if  you  will — an  old  friend. 

[Graduallyjidvancing , holding  out  his  hand. 

Julia.  [Clinging  to  Albert.]  Friend!  no,  no,  fly,  miserable  man. 
fly,  hence — far  from  my  husband — far,  far  as  the  poles  asunder. 

Mai.  Julia,  heap  not  reproaches  on  ray  poor  houseless  head. 


32 


THE  GAMBLER^  FATE. 


[Wind  heard.]  Cold  and  famine  pinch  my  shattered  frame.  [Storm.] 
All  I ask  is  hospitality  for  the  night , and,  if  you  command  it,  at  day- 
break I’ll  take  my  wallet  and  my  staff,  and  never,  never  see  you 
more. 

Julia.  Albert ! 

Albert.  Julia,  let  your  own  heart  decide. 

M tremendous  hurricane  at  this  moment.  Julia  and  Malcour 

shiver — the  child  clings  to  the  father  for  warmth,  who  presses  her 

to  his  side. 

Julia.  [Pause — look  out  at  the  storm , then  at  him.]  Rest,  rest,  it 
never  shall  be  said  that  I exposed  to  the  pelting  of  the  pityless  storm, 
the  wretch  that  asked  the  shelter  of  my  humble  roof. 

[Takes  the  girl  and  exit,  l.  h.  2 e. 

[Albert  sits  sullen — Malcour  advances  to  the  table,  takes  off  his 
wallet  and  puts  down  his  staff. 

Mai.  You  grant  me  shelter  and  I thank  you— you  won’t  refuse  me 
the  scraps,  the  remnant  of  your  meal  I 

Albert.  [Sullenly.]  Eat — eat. 

Mai.  [Takes  off  napkin.]  This  doesn’t  denote  the  poverty  with 
which  he  seems  surrounded — humph  ! [Drinks.]  The  wine  is  good — 
[a  2 eZ,]  ’tis  excellent ! [3 d glass — aside,]  very  excellent  i’  faith.  [Eats 
— pause.]  Germaine,  why  do  you  sit  there  7 Come,  let  us  drink  a 
cup  to  the  bright— the  glorious  days  of  our  youth. 

[Albert  starts  up  wildly.  Malcour  alarmed  quickly  grasps  his 

staff. 

Mai.  How  now,  still  revenge  'l  [Prepared  for  defence. 

Albert.  No — no — no  more  blood.  [Checks  himself . 

Mai.  [Pause — puts  down  staff  and  eats  and  drinks.]  He  must  have 
resources,  and  strange  ones  1 suspect.  [Aside — pause. J Ah,  Germaine, 
if — if  that  day  would  arrive,  when  I could  once  more  try  my  luck  at 
the  old  game.  One  opportunity  and  my  fortune’s  made. 

Albert.  How  I [Roused.]  How  make  your  fortune.  [Anxious. 

Mai.  I’ve  touched  the  chord  that  vibrates  sweetest  pleasure  to  his 
ear.  [Aside.]  I have  found  the  secret. 

Albert.  The  secret,  howr,  what  secret.  [Impatient. 

Mai.  I was  long  thinking  of  you  before  I entered  Germany,  our  old 
friendship — our  boyish  sports — the  regret  of  having  aided  your  ruin, 
all  prompted  me  to  share  my  secret  with  you  and  endeavor  to  repair 
tho  injury  I had  done  you. 

Albert.  What  say  you  1 how  could  you— so  miserable. 

Mai.  My  rags  belie  my  words,  true.  I knew  you’d  doubt  it,  well 
[sighs]  some  day  you  shall  have  proof. 

Albert.  [Impatiently.]  Proof!  of  what  'l 

[Each  advancing  by  degrees. 

Mai.  It’s  no  illusion,  by  decided  calculation, -I’ve  found  the  secret 
by  which  I could  break  every  gaming  bank  in  Italy.  [Pause.]  Poor 
as  you  see  me,  I’m  already  on  my  road  to  Piedmont. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


33 


Albert.  But  what  of  this!  (Quite  anxious. 

Mai.  I would  not  yield  my  secret  for  a million,  as  yet  ’tis  here. 
[Pointing  to  his  head.  Aside.]  How  eagerly  the  gudgeon  nibbles  at 
the  bait. 

Albert  walks  about  in  wild  anticipation — looks  at  Malcour — then 
goes  to  him  and  offers  snuff  from  an  old  tin-box.  Malcour  laps 
the  box  to  obtain  the  small  quantity  in  the  corner. 

Albert.  Yet — you — you  intended  to  share  it  with  me  ? 

Mai.  Ah,  but  money  is  necessary  to  begin  our  plan — and  to  meet 
you  thus  in  abject  poverty.  [Sighs. 

Albert.  Perhaps. 

Mai.  Ah,  money,  money  ! [Sighs. 

Albert.  Behold ! [Shows  his  purse. 

Mai.  Gold  ! [Pause. J Albert,  friend  of  my  youth,  companion  of 
many  a gay  and  happy  hour,  what  say  you,  shall  we  combine  our 
fortunes — employ,  I,  my  secret , you  your  gold'1.  [Aside. ] Has  he 
more  1 Is  that  all  you  possess  1 
Albert.  Yes,  is  it  not  enough  I 

Mai.  [Feeling  the  purse , shakes  his  head.]  Humph  ! I doubt  it 

much.  Ah  ! if  we  were  able How  did  you  get  that  purse  1 

[Significantly. 

Albert.  How  ! [Starts  with  horror.]  I — I must  not  say.  [Puts  up 
the  gold , walks  away.] 

Alai.  [Aside.]  Humph!  ’tis  as  I suspected. 

Albert.  [After  a pause.]  Malcour,  remain  with  me,  and  perhaps — 
Mai.  Not  here.  I am  a stranger,  without  passport,  a common  vag- 
rant. I have  been  alarmed  too,  [in  his  ear,]  just  now,  when  I had 
quitted  the  main  road  for  a nearer  cut,  there  behind  the  great  rock, 
[Albert  starts,]  I passed  a sort  of  mound,  it  seemed  of  new  raised 
earth,  loosely  covered  with  straggling  stones,  collected  on  the  moun- 
tain side,  curious,  with  my  staff,  I displaced  the  stones,  and  there 
discovered 

Albert.  [During  this  speech  increased  agitation.]  Silence!  [Seizing 
his  arm. 

Mai.  You  know  then  I 

Albert.  Yes — yes — come,  [with  terror ,]  come,  ’tis  night — the  sky 

is  dark- — come  help  me  to  securely  cover 

Mai.  [Holding  back  in  fear.]  ’Twas  you  then  that- 

Albert.  No,  no,  my  wife,  my  child,  ’twas  famine  and  despair  that 
forced  me — come,  it  must  be  concealed — come,  come. 

Re-enter  Rose,  with  a lamp,  l.  h.  2 e. 

’Tis  not  wanted  here,  we  are  about  to  walk,  should  your  mother  ask, 
tell  her  we  are  gone  to  the  hermitage. 

Music. — Exit  Albert  and  Malcour,  l.  d.  f.  Rose  near  the  door 
expresses  her  fear.  Henry  is  seen  through  the  window,  r.  f. 

Enter  Henry  Germaine,  d.  f.  l. 

Rose.  Ah  ! a stranger ! 


34 


THE  GAMBLER'S  FATE. 


Henry.  Don’t  be  alarmed  my  pretty  little  friend.  [At  the  door , r.  h. 
2 e.J  Permit  me  to  enter  and  enquire  where  I am. 

Rose.  Oh,  yes,  come  in  out  of  the  wet,  if  you  please,  fir. 

Henry.  Tell  me,  my  little  dear,  is  this  the  abode  of  one  Albert  1 

Rose.  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir.  [Henry  throws  off  his  cloak. 

Henry.  This  then  is  the  wretched  abode  of  one  who  might  have 

lived  in  splendor,  had  not  a fatal  vice Well— well— he  is  my 

father.  [ Wipes  his  eyes.]  Pray,  where  is  the  master  of  this  house  1 

Rose.  He  is  just  gone  out,  if  you  please,  sir. 

Henry.  And  my  m and  his  wife  'l 

Rose.  Oh,  my  mother  1 she  is  there.  [Pointing  to  l.  h.  d. 

Henry.  Your  mother ! are  you  her  daughter  1 

Rose.  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir.  I’m  little  Rose,  and  I’m  my  father's 
daughter  too,  sir. 

Henry.  My  poor  girl.  [Takes  her  on  his  knee  and  kisses  her . 

Julia.  [From  within.]  Come,  Rose,  come. 

Rose.  [Springs  from  him.]  Mamma  calls,  and  I always  run  directly 
she  calls.  [Exit,  l.  h.  d. 

Henry.  ’Twas  my  mother’s  voice  then.  [About  to  follow.]  No — no 
I must  not  discover  myself  yet,  she  has  suffered  enough  and  I must 
prepare  her  gently  for  the  happiness  I bring  her.  Ah ! she  comes. 

[Re-enter  Rose  leading  Julia  l.  h. 

Julia.  A stranger ! where  is  your  father  1 

Rose.  Gone  to  the  hermitage  with  that  poor  hungry  beggar  man. 

Julia.  With  Malcour ! 

[Rose  takes  her  work  and  exit  busily,  l.  h. 

Henry.  We  are  alone,  alas,  I have  not  strength. 

Julia.  Sir,  that  a stranger  of  your  appearance  should  stop  at  this 
wretched  habitation 

Henry.  Madam,  have  you  lost  all  recollection  of  my  features'? 

Julia.  Sir ! really  ! — where  did  I 

Henry.  Where ! far,  far  away,  at  a time  when  you  were  happy. 

Julia.  Happy ! that  I have  never  been. 

Henry.  Never'?  [He  is  about  to  take  her  hand,  she  retreats  fear- 
ful.] It  was  in  France. 

Julia.  In  France,  yes,  there,  I once  was  happy.  I had  then  my 
son,  my  dear,  my  darling  boy.  Ah ! the  days  are  past,  years,  years 
have  fled  since  then.  Oh  my  heart,  the  mother — the  mother — rises 
here — you  are  mov’d  sir — you — you  are  from  France  1 

Henry.  I am,  [wiping  tears, J I bring  you  news  of 

Julia.  Of  my  son ! Ah  ! does  he  live  ? is  he  well  1 have  you  seen 
him  1 [seizes  him.]  pardon  an  anxious  mother’s  feelings.  [Stares  in 
his  face.  Sudden  thought.]  Great  God  ! your  age — your  tears ! 

Henry.  M — m — mother ! 

Julia.  Ah  ! it  is  my  son  ! [Embrace. J I’m  weak — I’m  weak.  OK 
have  I so  long  suffered  misery  with  courage  to  die>with  transport  now 

[Embrace. 

Henry.  I come  to  end  all  troubles ; I bring  fortune — happiness. 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE.  35 

Julia.  I want  no  wealth  ; I am  rich — rich  in  a beloved  son.  Hen- 
ry, we — we  never  part.  [ Clasping  him, 

Henry.  Never. 

Julia.  Say — how  did  you  discover  this  miserable  abode  'l 
Henry.  Let  this  suffice : You  left  me,  an  infant,  to  your  uncle’s 
care;  he  obtained  a princely  fortune,  and  dying,  I became  its  sole 
possessor,  and  now  ’tis  yours,  yours,  my  dearest  mother. 

Julia.  Dead  ! my  kind  uncle  dead  ! 

Henry.  His  papers  gave  an  uncertain  clue  to  your  retreat ; I swore 
*o  find  you  if  the  globe  contained  you ; the  guardian  angel  who 
watches  over  filial  piety  was  my  guide  ; my  sister  first  received,  and 
now  I am  in  my  long  lost  mother’s  arms. 

Julia.  [ Calls  ] Rose  ! Poor  Rose ; you’ll  love  your  sister,  Henry  1 

Enter  Rose,  with  a cushion,  which  she  puts  down — Julia  places  her 
on  Henry’s  knee,  l.  h. 

Now  indeed  I’m  happy. 

Henry.  All  shall  be  happy — rich  / behold ! here  I’ve  notes  for 
£5000.  [ Pulling  from  side  a larqe  flat  pocket-book. 

Julia.  £5000  ! 

Henry.  But  here  I’ve  a boon  more  precious  still — my  father’s  par- 
don. [ Showing  paper. 

Julia.  His  pardon!  Oh,  heavens,  it  is  ! 

Henry.  Where  is  he  'l 
Julia.  I fly  to  seek  him. 

[Henry  gives  Rose  a purse  of  gold,  which  she  throws  on  the  table  for 
her  mother. 

Julia.  Should  MalcOur  hear  of  Henry’s  wealth,  he’ll  follow  in  my 
husband’s  steps,  and  all  is  lost  again.  No,  he  shall  never  know  my 
Bon  ! I must  see  Albert  and  apprise  him  ; but  the  night,  the  storm — 
no  matter,  nothing  shall  prevent  me.  [Aside.]  Rest,  my  son,  rest,  and 
in  a few  moments  a long  lost  father’s  arms  shall  clasp  thee. 

[Exit,  wrapping  her  garment  round  her,  l.  d.  f. 
Henry.  In  your  mother’s  absence,  can  you  lend  me  pen  and  ink  1 
[Takes  sheet  of  paper  from  pocket-book. 
Rose.  Yes,  and  a light  too,  for  it  is  dark.  [Runs  out,  l.  h.  d. 
Henry.  One  line  to  mine  host  of  the  Golden  Lion  to  send  a carriage 
— I’ll  bribe  the  first  passer-by  to  take  it. 

Re-enter  Rose,  with  a lamp. 

Rise.  There,  sir,  there’s  tbe  light,  and  I’ve  put  the  pen  and  ink  in 
my  little  room — it  isn’t  so  cold  there,  and  you  won’t  see  the  lightning. 
Henry.  And  you  7 

Rose.  Oh,  I 11  carry  in  my  cushion  and  work  by  your  side. 

Henry.  Ah  \ you  shall  always  be  my  dear  little  companion  ; come. 

[Takes  the  lamp  and  exit,  l.  h.  d.  Lightning. 
Rose.  There's  a flash  ! [Loud  thunder .]  now  it  thunders,  and  how 
black  it  is  ! how  afraid  I should  be  if  I was  all  alone  by  myself. 


86  THE  gambler’s  fate. 

Music. — Gmng,  when  a grand  coup  de  tonnere — she  screams , antk 
hides  her  face  with  cushion.  Enter  Malcour  and  Albert,  quick- 
ly, l.  i>.  f.  Rose  runs  to  her  father,  putting  her  work  on  chair,  r.h. 
— tries  to  lead  him  to  Henry.  Malcour  puts  down  wallet  and 
staff— sees  Henry's  cloak  and  hat  and  purse. 

Mai . What’s  this  1 gold ! 

Bose.  [To  Albert.]  Don’t  make  a noise,  or  you’ll  disturb  the  tra- 
veler. 

Albei  t.  A traveler ! 

Rose.  He’s  there,  writing ; do  you  see  him  7 such  a nice  man. 
Albert.  A soldier ! [Alarmed. 

Mai.  Hush  ! behold  ! this  gold — is  it  yours  or  his  7 
Bose.  No,  no,  it’s  mine — [ consequentially ] — the  stranger  gave  it  ma 
Albert.  What ! all  7 He’s  very  rich,  then  'l 

Bose.  Very  ; he  has  £5000  in  his  pocket-book — he  showed  it  mam- 
ma, and  I saw  it  too — bits  of  thin  paper — he  called  it  £5000.  It’s  in 
that  book  on  the  table  there.  I Pointing,  l.  2 e. 

Mai.  £5000  in  that  book ! [Aside  to  Albert.  Then  to  Rose.]  And 
where  did  this  rich  gentleman  come  from  7 
Bose.  I don’t  know. 

Albert.  Who  asked  him  to  stop] 

Rose.  Mamma. 

Albert.  Where  is  she  1 

Rose.  Gone  to  the  hermitage  to  seek  for  you. 

[Takes  the  cushion,  is  going  to  Henry — Malcour  stops  her. 
Mai.  There,  leave  your  work ; go  to  the  side  of  the  road,  near  the 
great  rock — your  mother  will  soon  return  ; run  back  and  tell  us  the 
instant  you  see  her  coming.  [Coaxing  her.]  That’s  my  good  girl. 

Bose.  I’m  sure  you  ought  to  fetch  my  mamma  yourselves,  and  not 
send  a poor  little  girl  like  me.  [Pouting. 

Mai.  'Tis  your  father’s  will. 

Rose.  Oh,  if  it’s  my  father’s  will 

Mai.  He  orders  you  not  to  come  back  till  your  mother  is  in  view. 

[Malcour  takes  her  to  the  door,  l.  f.,  and  points  off — he  comes  back 
and  closes  l.  h.  d.  Albert  sits  abstrasted. 

Mai.  [l.]  Albert ! ’tis  settled  then — when  we  can  raise  gold  enough 
to  cast  our  rags  and  visit  Italy,  we’ll  execute  our  plan,  and  soon  possess 
riches  kings  might  envy.  The  chance  has  come — this  instant  must 
decide. 

Albert.  How — how  7 

Mai.  [Pointing.]  There  are  £5000  ready  for  our  hands — ’tis  but  a 
blow. 

Albert.  More  blood  ! thou  art  the  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cain,  walk- 
ing the  earth  to  tempt  despair  and  misery  to  deeds  of  horror ; already 
at  the  sound  of  thy  voice  my  heart  beats  high ; aiTeady  with  thy 
words  the  fires  of  hell  penetrate  my  breast ! go,  go,  go ! 

Mai.  Albert,  psha ! be  calm,  and  hear  me. 

Albert.  Thou  art  my  genius  of  destruction ! Am  I not  again  a trar- 


THE  GAMBLER’S  FATE. 


37 


derer  1 saw  you  not  the  livid  corpse  we  have  just  secreted  ? heard  yot 
not  the  last  groan  of  my  heart-broken  father — heart-broken  by  my 
falsehood  ? have  I not  filled  the  measure  of  my  guilt?  must  it  yet 
o'erfiow  with  blood — blood — still  blood  ? [Falls  in  his  chair. 

Mai.  Psha!  rouse  from  this  delirium — a moment  may  be  fatal; 
Germaine,  arouse.  [Shaking  his  shoulder. 

Albert.  Ah  ! where’s  my  wife  ? 

Mai.  Safe  out  of  sight. 

Albert.  My  daughter  ? 

Mai.  With  her  mother.  Now  you  are  yourself  again,  the  point  is — 
Albert.  That  we  assassinate  this  stranger  youth. 

[Rising  with  a terrible  air. 

Mai.  With  £5000,  what — what  may  we  not  achieve  ? ’Tis  night — 
he  is  alone — no  one  knows  that  he  was  here. 

Albert.  Julia  saw  him. 

Mai.  Tell  her  that  he's  gone.  [Storm.]  The  storm  increases— it 
lightning  or  a thunderbolt  should  consume  your  cottage,  why,  we  are 
not  to  blame.  [Smiles  significantly. 

Albert.  Ah ! what  mean  you  1 

[As  Malcour  goes  into  Henry's  chamber , lightning , rain  and  wind 
are  redoubled.  Rose  runs  in  to  her  father. 

Rose.  Oh,  father,  father,  the  thunder! 

[Albert  presses  Rose  m his  arms. 

Albert.  Stop,  Malcour,  stop. 

Julia  runs  on  in  the  greatest  disorder , l.  d.  f. 

Julia.  Albert ! Albert ! a murder — an  assassination  has  been  com- 
mitted near  here — they  have  found  a dead  body — the  soldiers  are 
eoming  to  arrest  you.  Call  your  son. 

Albert.  My  son! 

Julia.  Yes,  on  Henry — he  is  there.  [Pointing. 

Albert.  My  son !!  [Albert  runs  into  the  room , and  returns  with 
Henry  in  his  arms— who  is  wounded — and  carries  him  to  Julia.] 

There,  I give  you  your  son,  but  my  fate  is  marked.  I am 

Henry.  I shall  live  to  bless  you  both-1— the  villain’s  foilect. 

Re-enter  Malcour  from  the  room , l.,  with  the  pocket-book — Albert 
springs  upon  him. 

Albert.  Accursed  demon  ! hell’s  primest  agent — die ! 

[Stabs  Malcour,  who  falls  dead,  r.  h.  A thunderbolt  strikes  the 
building  and  prostrates  Albert — the  hut  falls  in  ruins  and  the 
fames  rise.  The  soldiers  and  peasants  appear  behind,  and  drag 
Julia  and  Henry  back. 

Albert  Behold ! the  gamester’s  destiny  is  written  on  the  gates  oi 
h«U!  [Falls  dead — Tableau. 


THE  END. 


rf  *1  ( 


7 0 

Kc' 

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* 


